There is a tree that stands at the edge of a windswept cliff on our mountain retreat. It is a unique tree. A lonesome oak. And I suppose it must be lonesome, for there is not another tree of its kind for miles. It measures sixty feet high and Xena and I together, questing hands outstretched, cannot embrace its unparalleled girth. It has stood here, rooted on this land, for 400 years, flourishing in good times, and enduring in the bad times. "Lovely" is not a word that comes to mind when one first sees this tree. No artist would commit it to parchment. No potter adorn a stately vase with its likeness. No stone cutter would inscribe it upon a wall for all of time. It has been twisted by the ravaging wind, split and blistered by lightning, scarred by fire, gnawed on by insects and riddled with holes by birds. Humans, who very seldom pass this way, have stripped long pieces of its bark for their use, they have carved names in it...PALAMON RULES...EROS OR OBLIVION!...BEWARE TYGONE! Shepherds have left their sign upon it, hammering their placard upon its sturdy trunk with little thought of the damage done, only that their grazing area be properly marked. Soldiers, both friend and foe, have inscribed their banner upon it as the land changed hands. Many have come and gone. But the tree endures.

It serves now as the lone sentry, upon whose rough back, my companion and I lean while we sit and talk. It's a place where this humble bard can observe the valley below, and the mountains beyond...a place to think, imagine, to write and to be. It has suffered drought and flood, fire and cold. There is some decay where its bark meets the ground, but at the tips of its upper branches where they reach out to touch the sky, there is life -- verdant proof of renewal trembling in a stiff wind. I respect this old tree, as I would respect anything of great age. There is wisdom in its branches; let no one tell you differently. I respect it more for its endurance, for its innate ability to roll and bend and creak and groan with the punches. But most of all, I revere its ability to restore itself, to close the wounds, to send its healing lifesblood coursing through its veins. The tree, wearing its scars like badges upon a general's sash, has a WILL to live, to endure and to flourish, come what may.

This evening, under pretense of a reconnoiter, she went for a walk in the fall moonlight. I know her well enough to know that she went more in search of patience, than intruders. No one comes much to this obscure, hard-to-find valley, except perhaps the lone shepherd tending sheep or the occasional lost traveler, though visitors of any kind are few and far between since the Romans built a road along the seawall at the base of our mountain. Still, she says one can never be too careful and I guess she may be right. There is still many a bounty on her head, but not too many enterprising men come searching for the Warrior of legend anymore.

Just after twilight, she is drawn back to the cabin she built for us here. I can just make out the faint outline of her shadow through the window as she stands on the porch...on the outside, looking in, watching me. I sit at the table near the fire, writing, and she knows all would be fine if she came in, but still she stands, silently watching. There are many who would not recognize the former Destroyer of Nations; her raven hair is peppered with silver, there are lines around her eyes and mouth, and her still sleek body is riddled with the aches and pains of battles long forgotten. For these twenty years she has walked beside me --defender, companion, best friend.

Yesterday, we argued over something trivial. I cannot recall exactly what it was, but even today, the fire of that anger is still warm. Yesterday, she made me cry in angry frustration. Yesterday, she was angry with me, and I with her. She has the uncanny ability to drive me to complete distraction. I must concede that I am not always the easiest person to live with, but then, neither is she. She is dark and moody, slow to speak and quick to anger. Old grievances are often flung off the shelf from where they had been precariously placed.

Today, we wandered, silently, slightly separate, through the nearby wood picking the last of sweet, ripened berries from the vines. As is our habit, healing words crept through the silence and we returned to the cabin, hand in hand. At the door, she brought my hand to her lips and kissed it, brushed her warm lips against my writer's callous and all was right with my world. We're good at forgiving. We have to be. The storms of life come and go, but we still love each other and we forgive. It is a required condition of loving someone and being loved back.

Now, tonight, as I watch her through the window, I see a soft smile come across her face as some memory comes to mind or a plan of innocent revenge forms in what is still a razor-sharp mind. That tree comes to mind tonight as I watch her from the corner of my eye. It is my last and profound hope that the love we have for one another will be like that tree. That if we have learned anything living in its shadow, it's that we have the same steadfast ability to endure all that's thrown at us and the depth to heal all the damage done to us.

As she steps into the cabin, I ask, "How was your walk Xena?" I lay aside my quill as she walks over and pulls me into a loving embrace.

"The evening star has risen...the air is sharp as a knife...and there is light enough to see from the tree."