I find myself pondering the unapologetic ugliness of the oak outside my window.  It stands a stark contrast against a powdered gray sky, its girth somewhat softened by form-filling leaves. 
 
For all the green newness, the simple splendor of this covering, it is not enough to cloak the twisted, magnificent ugliness of the rough and gnarled limbs.  To me, it is almost pretentious. We ought not apologize for who and what we are:  for our ugliness, which can be both crippling and enabling; for our irregularities, which can become our strengths; and for our rough surfaces, which not only mark scars and protect, but which also provide texture and dimension, and a playground for light.
 
After all this, I must not condemn the thousand little new beginnings that cling, oft pathetically, to the giant.  They are hope for tomorrow, potential for life, and beautiful in their innocence. Yet when they have gone, withered and dry and dead, my oak will continue to bear testimony to the underlying strength that has not flinched through many seasons of leaves.