Some animals will survive on an oak’s annual output … or, due to a dearth of acorns, they may not survive at all. But each year, the oak tree is there, full of memories from previous harvests, standing tall, trying its best to produce.
Some years I feel as though I’ve received an overabundance of acorns from my oak tree, and other years I’m left wondering why I’ve been short-changed.
It’s love juxtaposed with pain.
It’s warmth surrounded by storm.
It’s a rainbow of irony set behind the oak itself.
In the end, however, that solid, unwavering, stoic oak tree is my beacon of memories. It’s my tree-ring of the past. I look to it for inspiration and for reflection.
Call me the ‘tree hugger’.
For Tim McDonald