The tree in my backyard is dying. It is an Ash with those borer beetles and my father wants to cut it down—along with its siblings—because eventually they will fall and leave us.
I like to sit by him, though, and observe the ways in which green has nestled in between the edges of bark. I like to listen to the faint voice—to watch the wind respond. If I face it fully, it is as if I am in a forest; and I pretend the birds are here with me, happy because they still have their ancient homes. I pretend the squirrels don’t remember the land before me; that the chipmunks are not weighed down by the loss of their mothers when they so sprightly frolic through the grass.
But this tree will die, as will the other Ashes; and I think he knows this. Like when you start to practice yoga more regularly and begin to notice “new” pains in your body, but really it is just your increased awareness of a pain that has been there all along, this tree is, and has been, conscious of his creaking bones. He is excited for the freedom.
Joni Mitchell sings, “There is comfort in melancholy/ When there’s no need to explain” (1976, lines 5-6). Her theme of sovereignty is constant throughout her work, but especially in this song, which carries a repetitive melody; we are traveling with her along the road of multiplicity—of cyclical seasons. We, perhaps for the first time, can allow ourselves the right to be sad or lonely and actually embrace it as a tool to be more alive. It is our winter. If we lean into the cold, it ensures spring is coming.
When what surrounds us is uncertain, we have the unique and rare opportunity to be uncertain as well. We are released from our restrictions that determine how we fill those expectations. We create the new boundaries. One day loud and expansive, another quiet and small, there is nothing to demand that we remain the same shape.
Within this freedom to be everchanging, there is an opportunity for growth. In this time, we can truly discover who we are. We can better identify our needs and how to fulfill them. We can live in who we are. We can be what is certain. And that internal certainty becomes the external certainty that surrounds us.
John O’Donohue says that “…in the night. Trees, mountains, fields, and faces are released from the prison of shape and the burden of exposure” (1997, p. 2). He writes of darkness as a shelter in which one’s “own nature…creeps…” back in (O’Donohue, 1997, p. 2). “Nighttime is womb-time. Our souls come out to play” (O’Donohue, 1997, p. 2). “Darkness,” which can be understood literally or metaphorically, as in Mitchell’s “Hejira,” “absolves everything; the struggle for identity and impression falls away.” “We rest,” he says, “in the night” (O’Donohue, 1997, p. 2).
With this wisdom I walk to the Ash that sits in waiting. It is the black of a new moon and I intend to feel this sadness that comes with loss. A past version of me dances as the essence of that pain, and, like a daughter, she tells me her own story. I listen to her explain herself to me, freeing her of my body that contains her to just one person.
I sit on the hill and breathe cold air. I touch the earth and my body is no longer my shape. I am on the moon. I am that star in the corner. I am the stone next to me, the one behind. I am the leaves overhead. I am the green underneath. I am the air itself. I am the water. I am the night of O’Donohue. I am the freedom of “Hejira.” I have come to rest.
And soon enough, when I allow, my pain becomes acquainted with the pain of the tree. My ghost takes his ghost by the hand, and they swing and dance. In circles and spirals, their feet leave hidden paths kneaded into the dirt. They say, when it is time, they will rise, and the trails will become visible. I think crop circles to be the same: they’ve always been there, underground, but only when we are ready to see them, can handle the responsibility of sight, do they rise and make themselves known.
This Ash welcomes death as a beautiful step in that dance. This loss, a death of my own. I bury the shedded layer amongst his roots like an offering. She becomes the earth. I’ll never be able to put her back on.
I can be anything I want. And so can he. The Ash chooses to be happy. He chooses to live more fully—to soak in every drop of rain and release stories to any chosen friend.
The wisdom that pours out of those dying is unlike any other. For the first time, they understand that harsh light causes the soul to hide; and that in this lack of light, their soul can finally lead.
Björk says, “Pursuing the light too hard is a form of hiding,” and she’s right (2022, line 13). Despite what we are taught, it is impossible to hide in the dark. You are left with yourself only; and what you choose to be, echoes in the sky, rolling into clouds, ready to rain down on you once you forget.
I think of small towns in a similar way. To live in one is to constantly reconcile your past. It is to love people who are that past and who never allow you to forget it. You will be reminded of who you are, for all you are. People who cannot bear the parts of themselves held in memory may leave. They won’t want to believe that they are whole.
For some, this appears as the harsh light, crushing the soul from growth; and they have to leave. But it can also be the darkness. If you already know that you are whole, made up of regrets and joys, then you can fill the space in any way you like. This town is like a well; drink from it when you are lost, and it will remind you where you are. Because the people who remember become like the trees and stones that rest in the night, they will witness your breath of transformation as an invitation to do the same. The lack of newness becomes the uncertainty. The lack of a new dawn becomes a never-ending new moon—what is it that is going to come next?
You.
You are what decides your own shape.
Lana Del Rey sings, “It turns out everywhere you go, you take yourself, that’s not a lie” (2019, line 9). What she means is that this whole earth is one womb. Sure, it is diverse and different, but ultimately no matter where you go, it is still the same water. You will drink from the well and its memory will hold you accountable to who you are.
Leaning back to witness a world without shape, this Ash and I observe the ways in which we are dying. We recognize that the Goddess is both one of life and death. She reminds us that when something dies, it leaves a space to be filled with life. Then, we smile to each other, the tree jolly and kind. And we count the ways in which we are living, of which there are endless.
References
Björk. (2022). Atopos on Fossora [Audio File]. Retrieved from Apple Music.
Del Rey, L. (2019). F**k it I love you on Norman F*****g Rockwell [Audio File]. Retrieved from Apple Music.
Mitchell, J. (1976). Hejira on Hejira [Audio File]. Retrieved from Apple Music.
O’Donohue, J. (1997). Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom. HarperCollins.