Unseen Beauty: A Journal

The Constant

The heat lies heavy over the land, the moisture crystallized in the light of the late afternoon sun. The humidity is almost tangible; nature holds its breath, waiting along with the rest of us to see if the white wisps of cloud overhead will join together and bring us the moisture for which the green and grey world seems to beg. At the edge of the property, a massive live oak stands alone, the sole survivor of man’s march of progress. Freed of any competing verdure, it spreads its arms wide, stretching limbs like a newly awakened sleeper and casting a shadow that billows out across the grass, its dark, cool shape irregular, unexpected, and inviting in the shimmering heat.

A tiny whisper of wind curls across the open space, stirring the trailing feathers of Spanish Moss into life. The tree shimmers in the light, its edges blurred by the motion of the breeze and the swirling of the moss. It seems eternal, standing in the blaze of heat, grounded in the invisible mysteries of the earth, reaching for the faded blue of the tropical sky. For all its grounding, it is a wild thing, like the Florida landscape it inhabits. It stands proud, its limbs reaching beyond the span of most of its Northern brethren, a reminder that we, the humans are the invaders here, clinging to our air conditioners and cringing as the summer creeps in on us.

But as the heat closes in, and we retreat to cooled, bearable spaces, the live oak waits in the calm before the looming storms of the next season, a living being refusing to grow within the straight lines that humanity finds so comforting. It seizes the swirling air, reaching out for the heat of the sun. It is a constant, a harbinger, a promise binding earth to heaven, and reminding us of the beauty of the unconquered.