Acorns into Oaks

I think I’ve done a couple of things right in my life and that’s good enough. I need nothing more.

If I die tomorrow, that’ll be okay. I think I may have accomplished the thing I was supposed to do within these breaths I have, within the number of beats of my bum heart.

As Cherokee Marsh blossoms with the morning and the distant oaks glow in the sun-risen light, I breathe. My heart beats. All is well, for I know—at this moment, anyway—that things are all right, as they should be, as they will be, regardless of whether I drop right here among these tall grasses and bird song and breathe no more.

My daughter: that’s the thing I did right. As I walk my morning walk, it’s August, her birth month. I look at the radiant limbs of trees, and I feel confident that my own family tree is a little bit stronger because of my love of her.

There are 500 species of oak in the world. The United States has around 90. Cherokee Marsh has a couple. Oaks have grown in Wisconsin for 10,000 years. One oak can live to around 300 years. Some of the oldest oaks on Earth have lived 1,000 years. I’ll be lucky to reach 80. What sort of forest will grow over my grave? One seeded, I hope, with those I loved. My wife. My stepdaughter. My child.

She was an acorn once. She’s an oak now. An oak, and maybe a branch, too, of a mighty oak: our family. This family tree, and ones going generations back; going back millennia to when we stepped from the trees and became human.

I don’t remember a time that I walked through a forest with her and didn’t think of family, about what binds us, what makes us grow, and what makes us whole.

We are all seed, and branch, and tree.

I carried her into dark groves when she was a baby and now, a young adult, she leads me into the thickets. It’s okay, dad. This way. She smiles. I follow, mile upon mile.

Acorns forming on a Swamp White Oak

Acorns into oaks—but only one acorn in 10,000 will grow into a tree.

How wildly lucky we are to exist. How infinitely fortunate we are to have family trees. How outlandishly impossible it is to wander this Earth, and yet we do. And yet we have. And yet we will, but for a moment. Just for a time, a time shorter than an oak’s span of life.

I cannot take credit for who my daughter is. She’s who she is—a radiant thing far beyond me. Far more brave, and wiser. Far more intelligent, and kind. Far more honest and true. Far more joyous and content. Far beyond me.

And that’s how I know I did one right, good thing in this life. My child is better than I am. I gave her whatever meek guidance I could. I gave her some wobbly structure so that she could propel herself beyond whatever meager grasp I had of this life.

I never wanted to grasp her, hold her back. Instead, in my hand to hers, a compass. Here, child, use this and find yourself in whatever world it is you want to create. Leave me here (look back if you want) in this marsh in Wisconsin, as the sun filters through and the eternal birds sing their eternal songs.

Let me walk slowly, child, and cherish these August breaths of my life. My autumn approaches. It’s already here for me. It’s okay. Leaves turn. I’m not getting any younger and the oaks are gaining another ring.

I am so proud of her.

There’s a breeze. The oak leaves seem to be waving. Maybe it’s a hello to her. Maybe the trees are welcoming her to her own burgeoning beautiful life. Welcome, welcome. Welcome.