It’s been a season of things not working out the way I’d like. An organization I’ve loved and helped lead has had to disband. A couple of other ways in which I’ve offered my work into the world have ceased to be viable.
It’s hard to let go. I feel helplessness, grief, anxiety, disappointment, frustration … the whole deeply uncomfortable collection.
One of my practices in being with the messy feelings is to take a walk by myself. The route is familiar so I don’t have to think about where I’m going. I don’t listen to music or a podcast. I just walk, and let myself experience whatever emotions surface. Sometimes I do wonder what other people think as they pass me when the tears are pouring down my face, but I don’t let that stop either the walking or the crying.
Always, this practice helps the emotions move through, and there comes a moment of stillness. The intensity of feeling eases, and in the quiet which follows, there is always as sense of comfort. Sometimes there is even insight.
My walking route takes me through green spaces and past a variety of trees. One, in particular, always seems to speak to me in some way. This year, I’ve been feeling the sadness of the changing colours from vibrant green to gold to brown to naked branches. “My tree” doesn’t fuss about the changing seasons. It simply stands there, drinking in the rain, sending out buds in response to spring’s invitation, displaying its leaves in the summer sunshine … and yes, releasing those leaves when Fall arrives, and simply standing stripped in the face of winter’s blast.
Motivated to see what else I can learn from the example of “my tree”, I did some research into the falling of the leaves. Is it possible there is more to be seen than loss and death?
It turns out that the loss of leaves is actually what allows the tree to survive the winter. Apparently, a tree loses a lot of its moisture through its leaves. The complex changes that create the change in season permit the tree to release its leaves and thus reduce its need for water to that which its roots can harvest from below the frost line.
One of my favourite authors, Mark Nepo, states it this way—“The original definition of sacrifice … means: to give up what no longer works in order to stay close to what is sacred. This is a profound timeless lesson we all keep relearning. Because we grow, what works in keeping us alive keeps changing and we are asked to put down what once worked, no matter how dear, to honor it, and discover what brings us alive now.”
This is my lesson—releasing what is dear to discover a new way of being, a new way of “what works”. Yes, there is loss here, but it’s a loss that, if I’ll listen, hints at new growth. I’ll be honest, I’d like to jump immediately to the new growth. My tree reminds me that there is a necessary time of “nothingness” between the release of the leaves and the appearance of new buds.
My mission, if I’ll accept it, is to stay rooted in the present, trusting the unfolding of all, letting my soul absorb all this moment has to offer … and letting the tears flow when required.
No easy task. I’m glad my tree and its many companions are there to remind me.
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