by Dave de Felice

When speaking publicly about suicide, I like to tell the story of the tree and the tree house. It's a true story. There is, in fact, a tree, and there are the remnants of the treehouse. Both are in my backyard.

The tree is sturdy, large and leafy, taller than my two-story house, and mature, its trunk nearly three-feet thick. For children from a bygone era it was nature's version of playground equipment. More than just for climbing, the tree's hand-shaped branches held a tree house built many years ago by a farmer for his children.

As the years passed, the tree house fell away until nothing was left but a two-by-four attached to the trunk. As the tree grew taller and thicker, the board climbed higher and sank deeper into the trunk. Obviously, a board with rusty nails embedded in a tree is not natural to the tree, but the tree continued to grow so that today the trunk, bark and board are one.

The lesson that perhaps can be taken from the tree and the tree house is that when a tragedy becomes attached to our hearts, then we must find a way to grow with it, grow around it and allow it to be with us, but of course not become us. That is growth. And growth takes courage.