Not Done Yet

There's a tree in my front yard that's quite pathetic. It has but a small tuft of leaves on its topmost branches. Many, strike that, all of its lower branches are long gone, stripped away by forceful winds. And yet the tree is hanging on, growing ever higher, its leaves as green or greener than its healthier, neighboring trees. It reaches for the sky, taller than all the others, waving its arms unceasingly. “I am still here,” it says, “I’m not done yet.”

And I wonder, do the trees resent the wind? Would you if it had ripped away pieces of you, large important parts that define you? Do the trees hate the constant push and pull of the breeze? Do they shake as if to say, “go away you merciless bully, quit picking at me, and let me alone?” Are they scared of the storms?

Perhaps they aren’t.

What if, instead they loved the wind, thanked it for the constant companionship? Maybe they adore the way their leaves look as they wind whips through them, all shimmery in the sunlight? Is it possible that they get giddy as the wind wraps their branches, tangles around them, and dances with them in intimate ways? Do they miss the wind when it's gone?

Perhaps the trees know the truth… that without the wind their own strength would be limited? That their lives would be nothing, just a boring string of sameness.

I love that tree out my front window. And like it, I have grown to appreciate the winds of life, to dance with them, to take the opportunity root myself deeper, and absorb strength from their energy. I too reach for the heavens, waving my arms and say, “I’m still here… I’m not done yet.”

"I'm not done yet."