There’s something mysterious about old tree stumps that never came back to life. You see them standing quietly, half buried in soil, their bark long gone, their insides turned hard as stone. Not quite wood anymore, not quite rock either. It’s as if nature decided to freeze them mid-transformation, leaving behind a memory of what once was alive.
When you walk by one of these stumps, it feels like passing an ancient monument. The roots might still be gripping the earth, but there’s no pulse underneath. Sun and rain have sculpted their surfaces into smooth curves and deep cracks, giving them the look of weathered statues. Some even shine faintly in the right light, as if polished by time itself.
There’s beauty in how they stopped changing. They no longer grow leaves or cast shade, but they still hold a kind of dignity. You could imagine them as guardians of the place, keeping silent watch over the living forest around them.
Sometimes I like to think that these stumps didn’t fail to survive, they simply decided to stay. To turn into something else. To let the years carve them into art.
Stay blessed