There’s a tree in the garden that I love.
The neighbor’s garden, not my garden, but I love it all the same.
Some mornings, I’ll sit on the small bench in my office, coffee in hand, and just look at the tree for a while through the back door.
I’d show you a picture of the tree, but a picture wouldn’t do it justice. It’s not just what it looks like, it’s how it feels. Looking at a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge feels nothing like standing right there beneath it.
The morning light filters through the needles in just the right way. The twisted branches stretch into the sky. It’s imposing in a way that a photo can’t convey; dimensional in a way that the camera ignores.
I enjoy my own garden more because of the neighbor’s tree. I’ve never spoken to the neighbor, but I almost want to thank them.
What would I even say?
“Nice to meet you, finally… marvelous tree,” maybe.
“Sorry for staring, it’s just fantastic foliage,” perhaps.
I’m not even sure if the tree belongs to the neighbor, or if the neighbor is a guest of the tree. I’m unsure who was there first. We’re all guests of nature, I suppose, so I should address the tree directly.
The wonderful thing about trees it that they’re so effortlessly dependable. They’re always there, right where you left them; planted firm aside for the occasional sway in a strong gust of wind.
As I watched the tree this morning, a crow flew down from the branch and landed on the wire holding our outdoor lighting. Unable to get steady, it returned to the tree, where it didn’t need to try.
The tree isn’t there for me or the crow, nor for the squirrels that climb it all day long, gleefully teasing my dog from the branches.
It’s there for all of us, or none of us; it’s just there.