I am well wrapped up against the bitter cold, perhaps in too many layers. But I need to get out, to walk by myself. I set off at a fast pace and quickly climb up through the woods, towards the top of the hill where there are trees to talk to. I’m almost stomping, almost crying with the cold and a head full of confused feelings, unanswerable questions, frustrations. I need to walk them all out. I am full of emotions but at the same time numb. I am exhausted, empty and overwhelmed.
The effort of climbing in cumbersome clothes starts to warm me. I take off my gloves and hat and push up the sleeves of my jacket. I feel the air against my skin, a cool, comforting physical sensation. Slowly other feelings emerge: anger, disappointment, upset, sadness. I have so many questions. How did we get here? Why did this happen? What can I do? I crave answers.
I stop at a special tree to catch my breath. It is not a beautiful tree, but one that has a story to tell. I pause, hoping the tale will reveal itself if I look closely enough. It is a birch, close to the track, with a tyre propped against its base. The bottom third of the trunk grows upwards, almost straight but leaning slightly to the right. There is a large gash all the way down the left hand side, perhaps a healed wound or growth defect. The middle third of the trunk, still thick and substantial, heads out at a different angle. It points towards the ground, weighed down by the mass of the growth above it.
It is a strange habit for a tree. It looks as if something, human or storm, decapitated it and derailed normal upward growth. But the tree endured. It recovered well from the challenge it faced. But there must have been another one to come, because from the very tip of the downwards sloping middle section emerges the top third of the tree. A single straight trunk growing resolutely upwards, as it climbs it hosts smaller branches which fan out again and again, smaller and thinner with each division, spreading finger-twigs towards the light.
The crown presented to the sky is just like those of the other trees nearby. There are buds poised ready to burst into life again once the cold is past and a drones-eye view would hide this specimen within the dense forest. Yet lurking below the canopy is this strange sculptural story-stem, a side-lying ’Z’ shape.
My own questions are put aside for a moment, I want to interrogate this intriguing tree. What happened to you? How did you find the strength to change direction, not just once, but twice? How did you overcome the challenges you faced and refocus on your skywards path? The birch has no words to share, but somehow exudes wisdom. Setbacks are temporary and can be overcome. There will be a way forward. You can take a new direction and head towards the light again.
At the top of the hill are other trees to sooth me. I sit on a fallen log and watch them, observing lichen and mosses, mud and stones, branches and roots. I look up at pines and birches waving their branches softly in the breeze. I feel held in this place, grounded, valued, valuable. In early spring toads pause here between ponds. In summer sun-beamed speckled butterflies swirl and whirl to the songs of small birds and squeals of buzzards. In autumn the yellowed birches brighten the dullest day. I sit and breathe, taking a moment to appreciate the sights, smells, sounds.
Unbidden, new thoughts start to come, ideas bubble, connections solidify, other perspectives surface. I consider them, weigh them up, and find answers to my questions emerging. Gradually I am relaxed, released, freed. Gently re-energised for the way down, I realise I know the way to go now. I have found hope again.