I have a big Norway Spruce in my front yard that’s about twice as tall as the house. From the upstairs bedroom window, I can see its branches and they are always moving.
Sometimes they thrash in the wind, other times they barely tremble. One branch just beyond the glass seems to acknowledge my presence, nodding at me when I need encouragement.
The trunk of the spruce never moves but holds up all these branches and needles and cones with towering strength. I like the combination of movement at the edges and stillness at the center.
I wish I could say the same about myself.
In the spring, new growth appears at the ends of each twig—bright green clusters of needles gleaming in the light. At the same time, dead branches hang on everywhere, often for years.
I used to want to trim out all the dead stuff but I’ve come to believe it’s necessary, somehow, that it’s part of the process.
The whole cycle of life is here in this single tree and I think it can teach me something about flexibility and endurance. About how to stand up and reach out and hold on.