The live oaks of Charleston, SC,
have weathered storms that clawed at their roots,
Hurricane Hugo carving scars deep into their being.
Yet, they did not cling to the tempest’s grief;
instead, they bent, they healed,
and rose again to their cathedral heights.
Their scars are not wounds but whispers—
etchings of survival,
woven into the fabric of their majesty.
They teach us that strength
is not the absence of struggle,
but the grace to rise and stretch toward the light.
Even more remarkable is their gift:
these oaks, once battered by fury,
now cradle life in their open arms.
Resurrection ferns unfurl upon their bark,
Spanish moss drapes them like ancient robes.
Birds build homes in their branches,
squirrels find refuge in their embrace.
They offer sanctuary freely,
without bitterness for the weight they bear.
The oaks remind us:
to endure is not enough.
True strength lies in becoming a harbor,
a shelter for others amid their storms.
Their arms extend not with blame,
but with generosity,
teaching us to love without resentment,
to heal without closing ourselves off.
From their scars grows wisdom,
“from their shadows, life.
Even after the fiercest winds,
we too can learn to stand tall,
to hold, to nurture, to give,
and in doing so,
find beauty not in spite of the storm,
but because of it.
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