I’ve always admired oaks, as a child they were a joy to climb and you could always feel the history growing under your fingertips. To think that an acorn sprouting now may still be alive 900 years from now, how many hands and feet will it feel climbing through its branches in that time? Their strength stands out from any distance as soon as you see a mature oak in the landscape up can recognise it's shape and almost feel the bark tingling on your hands, the nearer one gets the greater the power and pure awesomeness of its life.
My desire for the end of my life is too buried with an oak planted on to of me so that my body can become part of something greater, something that stands not only in the landscape but also as part of it. It's roots reaching down deep, an organism of such magnitude that a mind as finite as ours can never truly grasp it's size. To stand at the base of an oak is to be embraced in its presence, is branches and roots stretching out far beyond us as we take our moments peace deep in the bosom of its strength.