Lessons of the tree

The tree stands short and proud.  Kind of like me.

Also like me, it has witnessed violence -- in its case, the scurrilous attack by vandals upon the neighboring garbage can.

I decided to sniff around to try to understand how the tree could put up with such violence and still keep serving bravely in its post.  

 

At first I thought that the cigarette butts littered across the grass -- perhaps left by the   perpetrators as they wrapped the garbage can in pink paint that symbolized something or other that mattered at the time -- were the important clues.

But when I stepped back, I saw that in the big picture the cigarette butts were too small to be seen.  And even the graffiti on the garbage can blended into the tranquil overall picture.

 

Everything* --the tree, the bench, the ocean, the garbage can, the sky, the bushes, and even insignificant me -- is all part of the tapestry of the bluff.

*Almost everything, that is:  Rest in peace, my squirrel comrades.  You are not forgotten.