About a month ago, I witnessed a man walk up to a tree and hug it—not for a few seconds, but for that prolonged amount of time I reserve for hugging someone I love who I’ve not seen or will not see in a very long time. His dark monochromatic clothing gave no hint of his identity, but the hug told me everything worth knowing about him. He held on to that tree like he was connected to it soul to soul and just from watching him, I felt that connection, too. I instantly admired this man’s heart and his ability and willingness to express himself so openly.

I can relate to this man because I, too, have an attachment to trees. There are pine trees up in the mountains of northern Arizona that, if you get up close to them, you can smell the distinct aroma of a freshly made batch of butterscotch still warm from the stove top. They are known as Ponderosa pines and rank high on my list of favorite trees. I can spot these pines from a distance because the cracks and crevices in the bark of the elder trees have a dark butterscotch tone to them, reflecting the richness of their age. I’m so drawn to them that when hubby and I go camping, I can hardly keep myself from abandoning my set-up-camp duties and walking right up to a tree that calls me. I bury my nose in a crevice, close my eyes, and breathe in that intoxicating pine-butterscotch aroma. What an instant soul soother it is, a mood changer, a gift from God hidden in the big wide open.

A couple of weeks ago, without warning, that tree in my neighborhood was chopped down. It was struggling like so many other plants and trees from the third year in a row of sustained record-breaking 100+ degree summer days here in the Arizona desert. I suppose it being cut down was a rational decision on someone’s part, but I still mourned the tree’s swift demise. It was, after all, a tree that hubby and I sat under many times on blankets or chairs on some of the most beautiful days the Southwest has to offer. It was even a favorite tree of our little dog who, when we’d go for walks, would steer us straight to it, where she’d uncharacteristically lay on her side with belly exposed and never want to leave. We often saw children playing around it—their shrieks of laughter filling the air—and women reading books under it, confidently leaning their backs against it for tried and true support.

Unfortunately, I witnessed the whole spectacle of the end of this tree’s life—the obnoxious roar of the chainsaw, the tree giving up its life, limb by limb. I winced when each branch fell to the ground. Afterwards, I walked over to touch her open belly that was now unnaturally exposed to the world. I traced the circular lines on top of the remaining stump—lines that told the story of how many years she lived and gave of herself up until that point. I closed my eyes and sent her my love and appreciation… and my apologies, especially, for her harsh ending.

Now, when I reflect on the day I witnessed that man hug the tree, I wonder if his heart knew this tree would soon not be with us. I wonder if he was offering his own positive, healing energy to the tree. I wonder if he was saying hello and goodbye all at once, ‘thank you’ and ‘I wish I could do more to help’ all at once. I wonder still.

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Love always prevails. Stay peaceful. Stay kind.

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