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Bundled stacks of twigs and branches line the medians along the city streets this week. Evidence of the last winter storm and the breaking weight of destructive, ephemeral elements. The damage left in its wake has revealed vulnerabilities visible among the many scarred and still bare trees. Now, at their most exposed, the edge of spring, it feels particularly harsh. What remains intact in the landscape may in fact be stronger, though it’s hard to know without examining their roots and surroundings. Observing the impacted trees, now changed by abrupt and unforgiving stressors, it feels shortsighted to simply assume a tree is okay because it is still standing. While we can admire their resilience, focusing only on the tenacity of a tree misses the truth of its wholeness; this would disregard an intricate and much needed process of healing through connection, from roots to crown. A storm impacts a vast system around a single tree. It cannot survive alone. It resides and thrives in a supportive community.
Of course I’m talking less about trees now and more about being human. Like us, trees cannot thrive in isolation, particularly through harsh conditions, such as family caregiving. While we can easily observe how the shape of a tree has been permanently altered or enriched above the surface, it’s what we don’t see that is so captivating. The beauty of its inner growth and how the complex and intelligent underground network of adjacent trees reach for one another to offer sustenance and support for renewal, to nurture health and buttress, as a collective, further damage and vulnerability. It’s an inspiring model of care. Trees are reflections of ourselves in ways which transcend language; they grab us by our senses, give us pause and the gift of awe. When we are not moved by the presence of trees, it’s a signal to check-in with ourselves. Imagine if we appreciated ourselves in this way. It’s deeply personal and perhaps in more ways we care to admit in our daily lives. Just consider this reflection for yourself now.
Call to mind the image of your favorite tree or most memorable tree (at any time in your life). Really be with it. Linger here for a while.
Now, call to mind the image of one of your favorite or most memorable people or loves. Really be with them. Linger here for a while.
See what I mean?
I have yet to meet a human who hasn’t had a fondness for at least one tree (or person) in their lifetime, though we are apt to single a tree out mostly for its beauty and not for the wholeness of its foundation, its periods of drought and damage recorded in irregular concentric circles, or their subterranean struggle and reliance on support. Trees are imperfect and complicated and just like us, they can be laid bare by life’s storms. They are sometimes fractured and forever changed. They struggle to adapt at times, they age and experience disease. It’s part of the life cycle and not an error or failure of the tree. Their presence, even in broken bundles at the side of the road, are a reminder of what is both temporary and timeless, and how trees, like us, rely on seen and unseen networks of community to heal and grow and also, to die and transform. No wonder we are moved and inspired, unnerved by their demise and appreciative of their enduring presence in our hearts and minds.
After significant turbulence or upheaval, we examine and collect the debris, we gather it with care, even mulching it to cultivate new growth. Only then can we fully process the impact of the storms we’ve endured, what we may need to heal, and when needed, to grieve the changes.
With a new season arriving soon (spring!), we can examine gathering ourselves and mulching for new growth too. Like the branches of your favorite tree, what stands out the most to you - about you - right now? Here are a few questions to check-in above and beneath the surface of your experience:
What has been exposed and revealed through the changes of this season in your life?
As the earth begins to transform in a groundswell of new life, what do you wish to see flourish within or around yourself?
Though we’ve grown tired of dealing with snow and ice, the dormancy has purpose.
What has been dormant and purposeful in these past many months in your world?
What has been laid bare by a storm in your life?
What feels abruptly transformed? Perhaps in areas where there was known or suspected vulnerability?
As winter transforms to spring, how has your network of support been impacted? What does your network of support look like from root to crown, like a tree?
Many trees are misshapen temporarily. Most will grow and continue to be nourished by the sun. The scars of past storms prominently displayed in the short term, soon covered by foliage, aiding the healing process and finding new balance between earth, soil and sky. How about you? Where do you anticipate healing and patience is required?
Wishing you a pleasant arrival in springtime. May patience and presence abound for us all in the waiting.
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