In my backyard lives a black walnut tree, my favorite since the moment I saw it.
It is the last to recognize spring, playing dead until I begin to believe it’s gone.
It is the most violent of my trees, pelting anyone who approaches with walnuts.
It is the most resilient, standing tall and apathetic to tornados and lightning, and wearing ice and snow as jewelry.
It once hosted a swing that kids used to practice flying, and when it broke, there were no signs of loss.
You get it. It’s a tree. This is what trees do.
But every once in a while, when I’m admiring this tree, whatever the season, whatever I’m trying to accomplish, the thought occurs to me:
The bottom line is, at the end of the day, no matter what anyone says, I don’t have to do one damn thing.
