The Trees Are Talking
The very thing that taught me about death and dying over 12 years ago is the thing currently teaching me about life and living.
*Cover Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Unsplash*
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Pro tip: You can listen to me read this full essay by pressing play on the article voiceover.
Author’s Note: Today’s piece references automobile accidents
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i.
Wild how life always comes back around. This past Sunday, sitting underneath the same tree I sat with two weeks ago, I had a big realization. It startled me awake; some deep wisdom unlocked.
After my accident in which I'd run into a tree, they came to represent something deadly. Something ready to take your breath away. I couldn't see them without it bringing me back to that morning. My body tightening. A mixing of screams and darkness. The trees began to haunt me.
On a visit to North Carolina last year to gather with my folks from near and far, I'd stood on my family's land. It was fortifying. As far as my eyes could see ahead of me, it was this remarkable expanse of green.
Of life in motion.
Of tiny seeds turned giant ol' white oaks.
Of things moving with the seasons.
Of lessons in honoring the whole thing and not just a portion.
A lesson in reaching back for the roots.
Listening to them.
Tending to them.
Something had come over me, and more importantly, something had shifted.Something, someone, was beginning to heal.
ii.
Laying on my back, my head to the sky, soaking up all the energy this past Sunday offered, I couldn't shake how imposing this tree was. It takes up space. A lot of it. But not in a way that makes you want to pull back in its company. It took up space in such a way that it made you, an onlooker, believe you could do the same. Its branches stretch so wide that you'd swear it was a whole heaping of trees, but no. It's just one. Mighty in its own right.
Our experiences heavily influence how we see the world. Certain things become bad omens, while others become signs of luck. Both of these rely heavily on belief. Which beliefs are you fueling? What worlds are you speaking into existence?
A new narrative took root at this park on an intensely warm Sunday afternoon here in Mexico. Trees never solely represented death; that's just what my experience had allowed me to see. In all their graciousness, trees are a stunning and spectacular reflection of life. How ironic that the very thing that taught me about death and dying over 12 years ago is the thing currently teaching me about life and living. A full circle moment, indeed.
iii.
My driver nearly collided with the car in front of us on the way to the park that morning. My screams rattled her, jolting her out of the daze she'd been in. Unable to convey much of anything, I nearly threw myself out of the car when she pulled to the side.
I needed to catch my breath.
I needed to remind myself that I was still here.
Still present in my body.
I needed to acknowledge what just happened.
I needed to feel safe.
Communing with the trees, specifically the one I lay under this past Sunday and the previous visit, had done just that.
Some things injure us in a way that goes well below the surface. Painful or traumatic experiences can cause a ripple effect extending far past that moment. It becomes something we carry, the monster on our backs. You start to wonder if you'll ever escape its hold.
iv.
The poet Yung Pueblo once wrote, "If the pain was deep, you will have to let it go many times." Letting go has always been hard for me. I sometimes hold onto things for dear life. Yes, even the pain. The pain becomes a life of its own. I feed it, nourish it, sustain it, and then wonder how it still manages to grow. What I once called pain, I call it by a new name: suffering.
But I get it, this odd desire to hold onto something that has outgrown itself. For a considerable amount of time, pain was how I measured my aliveness. No matter how dazed out I could be, the pain told me I was here. But you know what else tells me I'm here?
Hearing the birds chirp outside my window
Singing to myself in the mirror
Jumping waves in the ocean
Staring at the clouds
Looking at the flowers
Witnessing life happen all around me
For trees, letting go is a ritual. It's a ceremony. A cycle. A sacred opportunity to release the old in preparation for receiving the new. Letting go of their leaves allows for energy conservation, among other things. What I found most interesting about this process is that before the leaves begin to fall, the tree pulls back in certain nutrients, saving them for a rainy day to return to the roots. Even the things we let go of can offer us something.
The trees are talking, and I'm listening. Carefully. Closely. Expectedly. With their guidance, I'm becoming more alive each day. Every breath. Every laugh. Every encounter. Every choice. Every step. Ever evolving. Proof that even birds with broken wings can learn to fly again.