The eucalyptus trees in my backyard are going through their annual molt, if trees can be thought of as molting as animals do.  My friend Anton and his son Danya sat with me at breakfast on my back porch, and I was reminded how apt a eucalyptus is as metaphor for a person’s experience of being alive on this earth.  It’s not the roots or the leaves or the tall dignity of the tree but it’s act of regularly shedding its skin that makes the metaphor work.  I’m not a botanist, but I’m guessing the eucalyptus trees in my backyard would die if they didn’t regularly shed their bark. No two trees split and shed in exactly the same way.  The two trees near my house are approximately the same age.  The one on the right is almost finished shedding for this season and stands with mostly smooth new skin.  The skin of the one on the left closest to the porch is in the middle of the process of breaking apart, littering the ground all around with chunks and strips of bark. 

I prefer to see the shedding process as growth and renewal. Anton and Danya and I represent three generations, and each of us is growing, shedding and renewing.  We are alive.