The Tar of Yesteryear

    I have a favorite parking spot at the church that I have attended since 2009. It is in the corner nearest the road, but it is still not very close to the road across from the apartment condominiums. Many people did not want to park in it, my preferred space, because of its precarious proximity to a pine tree or some type of evergreen whose branches would freely interfere with most people who parked there. Like me. But, to my way of thinking, I commonly squeeze out of my car in tight places, and I like using up spots where no one else likes to station their vehicle. I feel like I am doing others a favor, making room for better spots. A small sacrifice for me, which makes everyone better off.

    

    Over the years I have used my hands to break off some of those branches of that tree. A little onerous or obstreperous, but the tree had its rights, too. Sometimes when I snapped off the branches, or worked them to break them, bending or twisting them to kill them for some future brittleness, I would get the sap or tar of its branches on my hands. I could wipe it off a little, or wash it up a bit, but more or less I carried this natural stigmata, tokens of my struggle with it, with me inside the holy chapel with the holy emblems, feeling like I was part of an ongoing system of cleansing, starting from within and working my way out. Tree sap usually doesn't smell bad, either: there are people who pay good money for this scent! 

    A few weeks, or maybe a few months ago someone had cut off some of those broken branches, limbs that obstructed the convenient parking. Less sap for me to contend with. 

    Yet today, I came to be surprised. It was gone. The whole tree was gone. Removed. There was no stump. There was straw and stuff covering the area. At least that tree was gone. Perhaps more?

    How old was it? How long had it cast its shade and spread its needles and cones? How many other plants and animals had enjoyed its presence? Was it 25 years old, dating back to last century?

    Was it only 15, like the boys and girls who attend my church, including early morning seminary Mondays through Fridays? Products of the 21st century?

    What type of tree was it? Does anyone else care? Or notice?

    

    A year from now, I will barely care or remember, but today: I lost my buddy branches tree.

    We miss the presence of such partners, small or rather insignificant though they may be. They become part of our routine, our life, our mental view and world.

    Fare thee well, my evergreen friend! Your smells and wooden obstreperous fingers and arms will live a bit longer in my heart. Your actual parts may have become something useful. Your roots may be becoming worm meal.

    And, the sunny and rainy and snowy days will come; we will look for your seedlings.

    Life will continue; your contributions will be carried forth. More of you will come, and the life that we do in parking by the church will be a new joy and revelation, on and on. More plants, trees, bugs, squirrels, birds, and little kids and even a deer or two will grace the area by the lot. We will look for sap or tar from other more weathered friends and lengthy branches. We will grow more, and live more, and continue. This first Sunday of November. 2024. 

    Fare well.