Senator Kennedy, and The Guardian Tree

From my Magyar family, there is a story from my father’s brother,* a man who had the tribal title of ‘keeper of trees.’ The family story goes like this:

“Once in times older than the fog and younger than the sun, there were old guardian trees. These venerable trees had lived so long they’d seen everything that passed by on the road before them… and often more than once.

Thus, these trees, so situated, had become shrewd observers of human nature. They knew the language of creatures too. They knew the odd, wondrous, and treacherous ways of men as well.

Humans found being near such trees often calmed their minds, quieted the spinning-jinn within. Often enough, answers to long held questions seemed to flow from the magnitude of the old trees, right into the human heart.

Therefore, those who’d come to the groves in mourning, or having lost their ways, or simply being perplexed, often enough went away feeling deeply comforted, better directed, or with more clarity of mind.

Long ago, before legends ever existed, guardian trees were not just trees, but healing spirits who gave of their leaves and bark and roots so that human beings could be made well again… and for that reason too, the people loved them. And, the leafy giants loved the people right back.

But as the guardian trees grew older yet, their limbs and reaches also grew longer– and much heavier– causing the trees to cry out sometimes. The weight of their limbs put unbearable pressures upon their delicate junctures. The village people were alarmed to hear the trees crying…

They feared the trees’ arms might break and bring down the entire tree, and so, they carefully whittled crutches made of ground-wood, and gently pressed these under the trees’ great arms, helping the giant trees to remain strong despite whatever storms might rear up.

And, the trees grew even older… and older yet. More challenges came from bitter winds and wild weather, til the oldest trees carried far more scars than bark… some scars from deep woundings, some from horrible severances, and many scars from loving so hard the tree’s skin had come apart time and again, each time allowing more tree, more love, to be carried within.

No matter how old a tree became, no matter how fatefully struck or crowned… the great trees were still consulted for their wisdom, their ability to see far. And those who knew the old trees best, remained ever near them, protecting the guardian trees now, those giants who had spent long and long, reaching out their heavy limbs to shelter and protect others.”

So may it be for the Senator and those who love him so.

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* “The Faithful Gardener, A Wise Tale About That Which Can Never Die,” C.P. Estés, HarperSanfrancisco