With friends like trees...

... who needs people?

There’s a tree I used to know in Niagara, surrounded mostly by rolling fields and farms.

My family — I must have been six or seven — used to live nearby. Whenever I was having a bad time at home, I’d get on my yellow BMX and follow a long country road to The Tree. My dog — a beagle named Sammy — would run alongside.

Later, I’d find out my friend was a bit of a celebrity. At anywhere from 400 to 500 years old, she’s considered the oldest sugar maple tree in Canada. Struck by lightning more than once, her mighty trunk was cleft down the middle. Someone poured tar into the wound, hoping to glue the grand old dame together. It seemed to have worked. The tree still grew to gargantuan heights, her branches strong and leaves impenetrably thick.

There’s a plaque in front. It’s called the Comfort Maple. Which is fitting. I used to close my eyes and place my tiny palm flat on her trunk and imagine I was absorbing magic from her vast roots. That magic would protect me from whatever was waiting for me back at the house.

Recently, I returned to the Comfort Maple . It must have been strange for her to see me all grown up as a recovering drug addict. But the tree had also taken a knee over the years. The tar was no longer doing the job, so her sagging branches were bound with thick straps and chains. Her foliage, once so lush, had grown sparse, exposing raw branches. She looked like she was ready to give up the ghost — but whomever was preserving her was not. Just to be sure, they built a fence around the tree. Absolutely no touching.

It made me a little sad to see my old friend like that. She had been an endless source of comfort. What did I ever give back? Besides, I wasn’t so sure she wanted to keep going. After 500 years, maybe she had seen enough. Did anyone ask her if she wanted to be saved?

But then, just as she had done throughout my childhood, the tree gave me a fresh perspective. What did it matter if she had grown weary? Someone loved her and needed her — so much that they went to extraordinary lengths to preserve her. She was someone else’s comfort now.

Just like you, the tree seemed to say.

When I began this journey of recovery, I was weary too. And not terribly attached to this world. I also felt like I had a fissure running right through my middle.

But someone took comfort in knowing I was alive. So they braced and embraced me, propping me up until I could stand on my own. They poured love down into me too, hoping it would stick.

So far, so good. And today, when I look up at my Comfort Maple, I feel like we’re closer than we’ve ever been. She’s scarred, but storied. Bent, not broken. Standing as something new. Loved, no matter what she’s been through.