I have often suspected that the most profound product of this world is tears. . . . Tears express that vulnerability in which we can endure having our heart broken and go right on loving. --Cynthia Bourgeault
My beloved white pine tree is gone. When I arrived home after teaching my MELT/yoga class, Tyler, the tree man, was high up in a lift carefully taking off branches. I introduced myself in tears, and said, "Did my husband tell you I would be crying?" He felt bad, and quickly added that white pines are not meant for Kansas. I knew that when I planted the seedlings from PA that my dad sent me in 1990. But 32 years is a heckuva run for a white pine in Kansas.
Somewhere recently I read an item about "Swedish Death Cleaning" (it's a thing, there's a book--google it) and disposing of family heirlooms. It is helpful the remember, for example, that those dishes I don't know what to do with are dishes, they are not Aunt Gladys. Likewise, I must remember that the white pine was a tree, not my dad. My tears don't know that, however.
Tyler intends to come back today to grind the stump, so that another tree can be planted in that space. I'm not sure I could do that, at least not right now.
Leta
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