From the moment I was old enough to venture from my mother’s side, I found myself running to the woods. I must have been only four years old when I first began climbing the willow tree just behind our house. I also frequently found myself lying in our front yard under the branches of a huge shade tree. Staring between the branches and into the sky, my thoughts fluttered like the sound of leaves in the breeze. The soles of my bare feet knew every inch of our large yard, driveway, and garden. Even at such a young age, I found my resting place in the rhythm of nature and instinctively knew that I needed time to internally process my external experiences. The world into which I was born was safe, interesting, beautiful, and exciting and I was surrounded by loving adults who permitted me to explore life at my own pace and in my own, unique ways.
The safe and beautiful world into which my little brother and I had been born felt shattered to me after our mother died. The transition to a different kind of life was confusing. Questions about the grief we experienced were first ignored and then later pointedly silenced, and sometimes even punished. In less than a year, there was a new house, a new mom, a new school, a new church, and new friends. In these shattered conditions, I found a place of rest in the natural world around me.
In Summer, I found thick, overhanging branches that arched above a creek bed where the sun’s rays never quite reached the ground and moss lay like a green carpet over the rocks. In the fall, I hiked through the blanket of leaves that fell from the trees and lay in patchwork patterns on the hills. In Winter, I walked to a shallow cave where icicles hung suspended from overhanging rocks. In the Spring, I sought out the white bloom of the Dogwood trees.
Seven years ago, Mike and I walked the perimeters of a piece of property we considered buying in Patrick County, Virginia. The smell of earth and pines overwhelmed my senses, and I pulled my jacket tighter against the chilly dampness of the fog. The twisting branches of hardwoods peeking through the mist shone grey against the white, low-hanging moisture. The undergrowth was creeping from the edge of the woods in an attempt to reclaim property. On the edge of a meadow, a lichen-covered tombstone stood tall, marking the grave of a young boy. Close to the house, a barn leaned precariously to one side.
As we stepped around the corner of an old outbuilding, I stopped quickly. My eyes fell upon a vine that for many years leaned against roughly sawed boards so that two had finally become one. Of everything we had witnessed, it confused me as to why this particular scene gave me pause. I took a photo and wrote a few words in my journal, allowing myself to accept my emotional response and sort out the reasons on another day.
This past week, seven years later, when I came across the words I had journaled and viewed the photo of the vine embedded deep within the boards of the old building, I had the same intense, seemingly irrational feelings I experienced that day. I sorted through my feelings and concluded that the mostly forgotten grave, the overgrown property, and the vine that held so tightly to a decaying building reminded me that the physical evidence of a life lived is eventually reclaimed and to dust returns. These thoughts were not so different than the ones I had experienced while walking in the woods as a child. Perhaps not in such mature detail, but still I had contemplated the harshness of death even then. It came to me that the emotions I felt so intensely on that day in Patrick County, and again when viewing the photo, were a reaction to the resistance I have to humankind’s mortality and the fact that little truly remains of our accomplishments when we have passed.
The ancient Celts believed their loved ones who passed over were not that far away. They believed that on certain days, called linear days, the separating veil between this world and the next became even more transparent. I didn’t know of these Celtic beliefs until recently, but I have long held to that belief myself. I do not try to convince others of things I cannot prove, but I have had messages from my loved ones who visited in my dreams, and I was at my son’s side when he died, even though I was a thousand miles away. I take comfort in believing my loved ones are still close by and what separates us is no different than a deep fog that keeps us from seeing clearly to the other side.
February 2, 2024
Dear Reader,
Perhaps today, February 2nd, you are thinking about groundhogs and shadows, or maybe you’re lighting candles to commemorate Candlemas. Some of my friends celebrate Imbolc as a pagan holiday while others may recognize yesterday as St. Brigid’s Day. All of these days, in their way, are a celebration of light! This is because we have officially reached the halfway point between Winter’s beginning and end. The sun’s rays are strengthening, and the days are growing longer. I don’t know about you, but for me, that’s something to celebrate!
Today, I have intentionally lit candles burning so that every time I pass the flames, I am reminded to pause and consider the light.
What does light mean to you, both literally and figuratively? Will you celebrate today?
May your eyes be open to light, even on your darkest days.
Much love,
Tammy
May You Go Easy, To Be Filled with Light, And to Shine
by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
“We don’t yet see things clearly. We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won’t be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We’ll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!” The Message/ 1 Corinthians 13:12