purpose and meaning. A time when pure inspiration and a divine, guiding hand compel you to be more than you ever thought you possibly could be. For some, it is the beginning of a journey and, for others, the culmination of a life’s epic pursuit. For my Grandma Sarah, the painting was her personal zenith. Grandma said she knew deep inside she would never be able to achieve the same level of completeness ever again.
I asked her if she felt a loss for not being able to enjoy painting like she once did and, again, she smiled her amazing smile at me. Without hesitation, or any signs of sympathy in her voice, she let me know it was the inspiration of the painting, which she carried with her every day of her life. It now gave her immense enjoyment, so far above what she once got out of painting, for painting’s sake alone. She was right; at thirteen, I had no clue what she had meant by that statement. It wouldn’t be until several years later, when the meaning behind her words would become clear and guide my battered soul during difficult times.
I walked once more up this hill of my youth, my own memories so vivid. I once wandered the field, collecting and chasing insects, playing under the branches of the old oak tree. The importance the meadow once held for me still resided here, if only in my thoughts. I could not stop the memories from replaying in my head, the picnic with Allison, not long after the town festival and her first visit to the tree. Later, Allison and I would share the magic of this place when we chased away childhood. On that day, underneath the watchful and protective branches of the grand old tree, I understood what my Grandma had meant years earlier. It was this memory that fought its way into my brain as I came to the crest in the hill. I could see all of it as clear as the day it happened. I still could not come to terms on how a special day full of promise could dissipate and be lost forever, in one shattering moment, barely a month later.
I stopped and gazed at the old oak tree. It was only a tree, yet it captured my attention as it always had so many times before. In the last six years, I hadn’t been back here. I wasn’t ready to face the meaning and memories of this place when my Grandma Sarah had passed on. I left town before giving in to the nagging pull the old oak tree threw out towards me, begging me to come and sit a spell. The tree looked the same, and yet, somehow, I could tell it was different. Since I’d last seen it, weather and time had had an adverse effect on the posture of the old tree. The tree used to be nearly as wide and full as it was tall; now there was a noticeable gap in the middle branches. Sometime in the past, a large branch must have broken free from the tree. I don’t know why, but I felt the need to search for it. I scanned along the ground for any signs of the missing branch; there were none and I couldn’t stop my feelings of guilt. The tree had been such an important part of my life and I purposely turned my back on it, as well.
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the old oak, as I fixed my eyes on it. If it was human, I would have said it looked out of sorts. It’s funny how we attribute human feeling and characteristics to the things around us, but this old oak had never felt like just a tree to me. It had shared in many conversations; even though it couldn’t speak, it still gave a response; you only had to listen. It kept all of my secrets hidden deep inside its core. The tree never broke a promise or went back on its word. It was a friend who always helped when you needed it most. I wasn’t the only one it had mentored. Others also came to seek its confidence and share their own conversations with the lord of the meadow. This place had a special way about it, and I was not the only one to feel it. There are places around the world that emanate peacefulness, calmness, and sometimes even forgiveness; this place was one of those.
The open space within
I asked her if she felt a loss for not being able to enjoy painting like she once did and, again, she smiled her amazing smile at me. Without hesitation, or any signs of sympathy in her voice, she let me know it was the inspiration of the painting, which she carried with her every day of her life. It now gave her immense enjoyment, so far above what she once got out of painting, for painting’s sake alone. She was right; at thirteen, I had no clue what she had meant by that statement. It wouldn’t be until several years later, when the meaning behind her words would become clear and guide my battered soul during difficult times.
I walked once more up this hill of my youth, my own memories so vivid. I once wandered the field, collecting and chasing insects, playing under the branches of the old oak tree. The importance the meadow once held for me still resided here, if only in my thoughts. I could not stop the memories from replaying in my head, the picnic with Allison, not long after the town festival and her first visit to the tree. Later, Allison and I would share the magic of this place when we chased away childhood. On that day, underneath the watchful and protective branches of the grand old tree, I understood what my Grandma had meant years earlier. It was this memory that fought its way into my brain as I came to the crest in the hill. I could see all of it as clear as the day it happened. I still could not come to terms on how a special day full of promise could dissipate and be lost forever, in one shattering moment, barely a month later.
I stopped and gazed at the old oak tree. It was only a tree, yet it captured my attention as it always had so many times before. In the last six years, I hadn’t been back here. I wasn’t ready to face the meaning and memories of this place when my Grandma Sarah had passed on. I left town before giving in to the nagging pull the old oak tree threw out towards me, begging me to come and sit a spell. The tree looked the same, and yet, somehow, I could tell it was different. Since I’d last seen it, weather and time had had an adverse effect on the posture of the old tree. The tree used to be nearly as wide and full as it was tall; now there was a noticeable gap in the middle branches. Sometime in the past, a large branch must have broken free from the tree. I don’t know why, but I felt the need to search for it. I scanned along the ground for any signs of the missing branch; there were none and I couldn’t stop my feelings of guilt. The tree had been such an important part of my life and I purposely turned my back on it, as well.
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the old oak, as I fixed my eyes on it. If it was human, I would have said it looked out of sorts. It’s funny how we attribute human feeling and characteristics to the things around us, but this old oak had never felt like just a tree to me. It had shared in many conversations; even though it couldn’t speak, it still gave a response; you only had to listen. It kept all of my secrets hidden deep inside its core. The tree never broke a promise or went back on its word. It was a friend who always helped when you needed it most. I wasn’t the only one it had mentored. Others also came to seek its confidence and share their own conversations with the lord of the meadow. This place had a special way about it, and I was not the only one to feel it. There are places around the world that emanate peacefulness, calmness, and sometimes even forgiveness; this place was one of those.
The open space within
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