encircled

When a redwood is injured -- like this one, struck by lightening sometime in the hushed twilight that is the steady state of Muir Woods outside of San Francisco -- the burl wood at its base buds and the tree regenerates through fresh shoots. Before long those shoots, too, grow into giants, ringing the roots of their fallen ancestor.

This is a belated post: I snapped this shot nearly a month ago, on my way up to Jackson, California to look in on my mother who isn't well. My aunts joined me there, and we took care of the kind of business that needs doing when lightening strikes and burl wood buds. My sister went before me, and was met by the strength of a dear aunt then, too.

Encircling, strengthening.