One of our seemingly-healthy middle-aged maples has giant holes hollowed out by a pileated woodpecker. A few weeks later, the smaller woodpeckers take their turns. A year later, a green leafy branch falls during a wind storm.
The tree service guy says, "No need to worry. Maple trees are very good at compartmentalizing."
I begin to look closely at old maple trees. They have all lost branches, big branches. Sometimes, half the tree will split off during a thunderstorm, yet the other half is still vibrantly alive, even if gnarled.
This process sounds like our own aging. We start out so young and beautiful. Pests are attracted to us, and sometimes they wound our heart. Sometimes we lose branches of our family tree--grandparents, parents, siblings, cousins, and other dearly beloved. Still we live on with visible and invisible scars. By the time we are ancient, we look gnarled and even ugly, yet the maple sap still runs in our veins, and we are vibrant and sweet.
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