The oak in my backyard has stood for over a hundred years. I often find myself wondering what it has seen…what it has endured. Seasons of change, storms and drought, the quiet passing of time—it remains, a steadfast reminder of endurance and patience.
I’ve always loved old trees. There’s something about them that feels almost sacred, as though they carry stories in their roots and branches. Years ago, a distant cousin gifted me a pendant carved from an ancient tree. The wood was so solid it almost felt petrified, yet lighter than I expected. He told me the tree had long since died, but it had once stretched its wide branches over his family’s homeplace. When it was cut, he made the pendants as a way to honor it.
I don’t wear the pendant, but I keep it on my bookshelf—a small piece of history, a quiet legacy. My legacy, in a way, even if only indirectly. When I look at it, I think of that tree…its life, its witness.
And I think of the old oak in my yard. What has it seen? How deep and wide must its roots run to have stood so long, tall and unyielding?
As long as its far-reaching branches cast shade across the backyard, I’ll think of its legacy—its silent witness. And when it falls, as all things eventually do, perhaps I’ll make a pendant from it, too.