On my way up the hill my eyes fixed as they do but my heart heard a sound that created fear. Cresting the hill I saw a tree cutter beginning to cut her down. I confess my will to weak to stop the tears. I stood fixed and in disbelief. My friend. The young man walked over and with a gentle voice said "It's dead." Correcting his "it" I replied, "She always carries me up the hill. She is so beautiful." And with that I bowed and whispered 'namaste' and began to walk away. The young man called out and brought me a branch. Blog one would have ended here with a heavy heart and sweet tears.
Blog two found its birth after darkness. Stumbling with eyes that cannot see in the dark, I scurried out and down the street with the moon guiding my feet. I could see the shadows of her lower branches stacked only the main trunk remained. I knelt and left an offering of corn meal upon the ground and her cut branches. It is a Native American gift back to the earth. With a final namaste and bow, touching the earth, I whispered "good night" not good-bye.
"Be still my heart, these great trees are prayers." ~ Tagore