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The Cycle

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The gnarled tree roots showed the grip of winter, frost carving initials into bark, leaving a timeless trail. Underneath the weathered wood were fresh-to-the-earth shoots, holding tight to the tree like a hat in the wind. Surrounded by this novel life, the tree seemed starkly dead. The bare canopy left the ground peppered with streaks of sunshine eagerly imbibed by hungry seedlings. In the breeze, exposed branches recoiled in shyness, pleading for buds to burst and dress their shameful nakedness.

Remnants of a nest, a home to some chickadee or starling, clung to a dip in the timber as if it refused to believe its purpose had passed. Now I'm sure, at some point, this scene was quite different; fledgling cradled by mother, cradled by nest, cradled by tree. Forthwith, however, the tree had released its embrace. Bits and pieces of nest rained down, pried from an old home by prodding branches. Nature seems to be particularly cruel to things that are old, all too obviously acknowledging worthlessness. Constantly shedding layers and discarding pasts, if only it was that easy.

The past, now raining down from the weathered wood was caught, quite if by happenstance, in arms of the greenest blade of grass. It was only allowed a moment to rest and enjoy a newfound companion, until it was snatched away in the delicate talons of a glassy-eyed robin. Red chest like a beating heart, he proudly carried his prize, landing gingerly in front of his complement to deposit his bauble. She masterfully wove her new treasure into a basket-like home for her soon-to-be family.

For me, bearing witness to this cycle was some sort of elated amazing. In the course of but a few minutes I observed how quickly old can become new in such a cruel nature. Many would say that, because of my age, I am at a point in my life where things are just beginning, for me however, this is a time of ending. My childhood has been overshadowed by obligations and my high school career is nearly over. It is now up to me, to ensure that my old experiences become recycled, that they are woven into a new beginning. I want to become a person that will be of help to others. Every weathered door that closes, I want a new one of opportunity to open. Eventually, when I get to that point so far in the future that I cling to my place in the earth and refuse to believe my purpose has passed, I can only hope, pray even, to become new once more. That my legacy, experiences, dreams, and ambitions will leave a mark and be of use to others.





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