When Trees Speak

I was not built for cold weather, and I do not do well when temps fall below 65℉ approach freezing. So this week, as I have scraped ice off my windshield and watched big, fat, fluffy snowflakes fall from the sky, I have tried to remind myself to be grateful for the unseasonably warm weather we had earlier this month and the lovely afternoon walks I took. As I looked back at my pictures from those walks--because, yes, I take pictures even when I'm just walking in my own neighborhood, past sights I've seen countless times--I noticed how many pictures of trees I had. But not just any trees. I mainly had pictures of twisted, gnarly, crazy trees, in a state of dormancy. It's not that I don't appreciate straight, lovely trees that reach right up to the sky according to the secret Tree Code that tells them that is just what they are supposed to do. It's just that the wonky trees were the most fascinating and photo-worthy, the most interesting to observe. I went in for closer looks and better camera shots and couldn't help but notice that, without exception, the most interesting trees were the ones which had most likely sustained some damage. Maybe they had been hit by lightning or had been shaped or broken by strong winds or had developed diseases or had received injuries at the hands of humans. The mangled trees all have difficult stories, and they are all over-comers. As trauma came upon them, they had to adjust. They had to give up the code that says what a tree is "supposed" to be and just go on growing the best they could under the circumstances. They found ways to heal themselves and to continue standing. And now, the trauma they once experienced is what makes them so beautiful. 

I understand what it's like to be one of these trees. I have always lived with internal and external rules that prescribe what I am "supposed" to be and what my life is "supposed" to look like. And, as a recovering people pleaser and perfectionist, I have tried very hard to live up to the sometimes impossible expectations coming from within and from without. I have grieved all the traumas that have twisted and scarred and broken me and made it impossible for me to live out the code I had in my head of what I thought I was "supposed" to be. BUT, I'm figuring out ways to heal myself, and I'm still standing. I'm continuing to grow the best I can under the circumstances, and it could be argued that I'm more interesting and beautiful now than I've ever been. 

When you get close to trees, they will whisper secrets to you if you are patient and quiet enough to listen. And what I learned from the trees is that there is no one way that trees--or humans--are "supposed" to be. The real code actually states to just keep growing no matter how many traumas you face. Just. Keep. Growing. If it's straight and tall, fine. But if it's twisted and gnarled and broken, that's okay too. 

A review of my year of happiness and joy

Hi there. Remember me? I used to have thoughts and write about them here, but it's been a minute since I've done either of those things. Here we are, a week into a new year--which is absolutely astounding to me--and I have finally decided to prioritize sitting down with my thoughts to see if I can unravel them enough to make any sense. I feel like I need to unpack the year we just left behind and begin exploring the year ahead. 

I began 2022 in a state of depression, after claiming "happiness" and "joy" as my words of the year. That didn't seem to bode well, and I spent some time feeling like a failure for not being able to step into what I believed the Universe had for me, which led to a deeper state of depression. I found the words hard to define and harder to capture. I believed these things would be found in a source outside myself but I could not seem to find where they were kept. And then another word came to me: alone. It didn't seem like a very happy word and was not one I wanted to focus on, but I decided to let the Universe have its way, so I embraced it. I began to understand that happiness and joy could not be manufactured outside of myself and that I was the only source for these things. I spent copious amounts of time alone with my thoughts and got really comfortable with being my own best friend. A couple of months into 2022 the fog began to lift and I started to feel really good about who I was as a person, which helped me show up better in every area of my life, which led to more joy in every area of my life. I realized I didn't need someone else to validate me and that the treasure trove of happiness and joy had existed inside of me all along and that there was no need to look for it elsewhere. And even if every day didn't feel particularly happy, a new sense of contentment came over me and joy began to grow in my heart. It became easier to see the beauty and magic in each day, and that felt a lot like happiness. 

I wish that was the end of the story because it does make a very tidy and uplifting story: depressed girl finds herself and lives happily ever after. But that isn't the end of the story. It makes for pleasant reading, but "happily ever after" isn't really a thing. And I am trying very hard to be true to my whole story--not just the parts that are ready-made for an Instagram post. I don't want to hide from the difficult chapters of my story or pretend they don't exist. 

Depression settled in for me again in the fall, when my baby moved overseas to live with his dad. This was a decision he made for himself, and I absolutely feel that giving him this autonomy was and is the right thing to do. I am pleased that he seems happy and is having so many amazing experiences. I would never want to take those things away from him. But I'll be real honest: not getting to regularly see his mischievous smile or hear his infectious laugh or give him a hug before bed or listen to his engaging stories--both real and imagined--or relish his banter with his brothers or share the big and little life experiences with him has felt like a slow suffocation to me. And because our situation is so unique, there is no one with whom I can share this grief. In general, people are kind, which I appreciate so much, but I have not met anyone who has had an experience even remotely close to mine or who can offer any consolation. And the me that became my best friend early in the year sometimes seems to have lost the strength to support me under this new and heartbreaking weight that I was in no way prepared for, even though I knew it was coming for months before it became a reality. 

Overall, I do think 2022 truly was a year of happiness and joy. I stood in awe of countless breathtaking sunrises and sunsets. I made new friends and deepened friendships I already had. I met a unicorn and opened my heart to new possibilities. I spent quality time with the people who matter most to me and spent less time with people and situations that felt toxic. I deeply appreciated the beauty of nature, the taste of delicious food and drink, the blessing of enriching conversations. I watched my kids do the things they love, and I put energy into doing things I love as well. I tried to live in the moment and to control the things I can control and let go of the rest. I danced. I sang. I laughed. I smiled. And I am so very thankful for all of it! 

But I have learned that a happy life does not always feel happy. Sometimes it's feels like screaming profanities at the top of your lungs when no one else is around. And sometimes it feels like ugly crying in your shower until you can hardly stand. And sometimes it feels like dissociating from everyone and everything and feeling numb just to get through the day. These moments are real and are as much a part of my year of happiness and joy as any of the things previously mentioned. Without these moments, I might not even have recognized the happiness that I experienced in the other moments. 

Some of you will read this and will worry about me or feel sorry for me. Please don't. I'm okay. Really. I am still able to function every day. I am able to take care of my responsibilities and to to do that well. I am still able to smile and laugh and dance and sing and find beauty and magic in the world around me. I am able to enjoy the company of others and even be a comfort to friends that are dealing with their own traumas. Joy still resides in my broken heart, and even on my dark days, I still believe in and look for sunshine. And I think that's what happiness truly is: not a lack of brokenness, but finding joy even in the midst of it.

My words for 2023 are "brave" and "peace," and I'm eager to see how they will play out for me. At first I thought it was strange that those were the two words that came to me because they seem a bit contradictory. Being brave often doesn't feel peaceful. It pushes you out of your comfort zone and makes you face your fears, and that is always uncomfortable. But the act of being brave leads to peace if you can see it through. I will be leaning in to acts of bravery this year, even if they seem small, and I will be pursuing peace like it is my full time job. I will probably also neglect to be brave or choose peace from time to time, but I will not beat myself up for that. And that will be its own act of bravery that leads to peace.

To anyone reading this, thank you for letting me be real and vulnerable. I wish you all the best this year has to offer. I hope you find happiness and joy even in your brokenness and that you find the courage to be brave in your pursuit of peace this year. I would love to know if you have your own word/words for the year so I can cheer you on as you try to manifest them in your life.