from the Ninth Wave Arts caretakers

By mid-July, the tree feels like the heart of this place.

It’s impossible to miss, in any season. Even in the coldest months, it stands there, immense and certain, a quiet sentinel at the edge of the yard. But here in July & August, when the air hangs heavy and the sun presses down, the tree comes into its own. Its shade is deep and generous, a kind of sanctuary. You can stand beneath it and feel the smallest breeze again, hear yourself breathe again.

We’ve come to think of it as our community tree.

Everyone seems to find their way here, one way or another.

The raccoons spiral up the trunk at dusk, their black masks glinting. The squirrels chatter and scold and chase each other in tight loops through the canopy. The woodpeckers hammer out their percussion in the early morning, sharp and bright. Ravens sometimes gather at the top, all shadow and intelligence, watching everything unfold below.

And then there are those who stay closer to the ground, the ones who don’t climb but who still know the tree by heart.

The skunks shuffle through the grass at its base, unhurried, stopping to nose for fallen seed. Chipmunks and voles scurry in and out of the roots, weaving quiet trails that no one notices unless you’re paying close attention. Even the ducks and turkeys seem to congregate here, crossing the field deliberately as if they’ve all agreed to meet under this one tree.

On some evenings, if you’re quiet enough, you can catch the fox at the edge of the field, pausing to watch. The bear too, a larger shadow lingering just out of sight, aware of the tree but keeping its distance.

Even the neighbourhood cats circle around, tails twitching, pretending not to care but always curious about what might be waiting beneath the branches.

There’s something about this tree that calls all of us.

It frames the seasons for us. In August, the shade feels like mercy. In winter, its bare branches hold the moon and stars like delicate treasures. Some nights you can stand underneath and watch the sky fractured into pieces through the leaves, constellations winking between them.

And always, it whispers. When the wind picks up, when the heat shimmers off the field, when the cold comes down, the tree has its own quiet language, a soft conversation that seems meant just for those who stop long enough to hear it. To stand under its branches and watch the way the light falls through them. To notice how it makes room for everyone, climbers, diggers, flyers, watchers, without hurry, without judgment.

It’s a reminder of what it means to belong somewhere.

In this season, especially, the perfect August companion.

The tree gives everything it has: shelter, shade, a place to meet, a place to rest, a place to climb, a place to dream.

All it asks in return is that we come.

And so we do.

We come, and the tree is always waiting.