The Oak Tree on My Balcony – A Gift, A Memory, A Rooting

This morning’s contemplation was unusually fruitful. I don’t even know where to begin.

Lately, my thoughts have been circling around how to promote A Listening Grandmother — how to find the balance between effort and surrender. Last night, to ease the tightness I was feeling, I turned to the TAG energy process.

I began with my Reality Declaration. Then moved into the DEEP SIX process to clear interference across dimensions and origins. I called in my Causal Design Team. I held my Staff of Discernment and my Sword of Sophia. I anchored it all — into my body, this room, this very day.

After that, I curled up with A Listening Grandmother. I use it a bit like a sacred book, letting it fall open to the pages that call me. This morning, I read Why This Book Exists, the Invitation to the Reader, the Introduction, and then Chapter 55 — From Self-Deception to Self-Mastery, One Small Honest Step at a Time. Each section brought me home in a different way.

As I read, a memory surfaced of Bength Brodersen, a kind and dignified man I worked with over 15 years ago in the Council for the Elderly (Ældrerådene). For my 80th birthday on July 8 this year, he sent a simple message:

Kære Lian, så runder vi begge to, blot er jeg et stykke længere fremme end du. Hjertelig tillykke, jeg håber du har det godt og du får mange gode år efterfølgende. Kh Bength.
(Dear Lian, we both round up, but I'm a bit further ahead than you. Hearty congratulations, I hope you're doing well and have many good years ahead. Love, Bength.)

Just a few days later, I saw on Facebook that he had passed — 24 July 2025 at 5.25
Six months ago, we had coffee. I remember how calm he was — sick, penniless, but full of grace. He once had so much in material terms, and had let it go. That stayed with me. A person I will remember.

And then — this gift, arriving just yesterday.
A small oak tree.

A birthday present from my son Kim’s in-laws — unexpected, and deeply touching.

I’ve wanted an oak tree for the past year without really understanding why. But this morning, the memory returned. At my 50th birthday party — thirty years ago now — my business partners Lise and Bente gifted me a willow tree. They knew I saw myself as a willow. When they presented it, my father commented:

“If I were you, I’d see yourself as an oak tree, not a weeping willow.”

I’ve never forgotten that.

I wonder now whether that willow tree is still growing in the garden of Rolighedsvej 18 in Værløse.

I’ve grown oak trees before. Jane and I gathered acorns in the forests near her home in Hillerød. I placed them in glass bottles to sprout, and when they got too big, I planted them in a public garden around Blågårdsplads in Norrebrø — near where I lived at the time. I wonder if they still stand.

During a recent visit to Jo, my daughter, in Milan, I saw the oak tree she’s growing in a pot. It’s beautiful. I remember thinking, Yes. I’d like to have one again.

So I planted one from an acorn I picked at Gentofte churchyard — near where my friend Elizabet is buried. It’s growing slowly.

And now, this new one. A gift from Victoria’s parents.
This little oak tree feels like a full circle.
Not dramatic. Just quietly meaningful.

A reminder of my father. Of past friendships. Of seeds planted long ago.
Of who I was, who I am, and who I’m still becoming.