When life becomes a little overwhelming, and the past threatens to interrupt the peace of the present, I go for a walk. I was on such a walk when I saw a tree stretching right across the path. It must have fallen many, many years ago: the ground is settled, and the earth has built up again around the base; leaves turning to dust under the feet of passers-by.
Had this tree stood alone in the middle of a field when it toppled, it would have crashed to the ground. Its leaves would have withered. Sap would have dried from the trunk until the tree became nothing more than an empty, rotting shell. It would have dried.
But this tree grew in a forest. It stood surrounded by other trees; some smaller, some larger. And when the tree fell, all those years ago, it was caught by other trees. And it lived.
I am a fallen tree. We all are: those of us who have lived through unimaginable grief, who battle daily with thoughts of what we could have done differently; what we could have done better.
I am a fallen tree.
The tree’s roots have been wrenched from the ground: nerve-endings exposed and vulnerable; brittle and dead. But just enough reach into the earth still to keep this tree alive.
I am a fallen tree.
As the tree fell, whether from disease or storm, it was caught. It rests in the arms of others, who have silently kept it from falling to the ground. They have saved it. They continue to save it.
I am a fallen tree.
The slant of this huge tree trunk is absurd. It lurches across the path like a drunkard bent on self-destruction. Surely a tree cannot grow at such an angle? But slowly, carefully, over months and years, the branches have learned to adapt. They have changed their path; twisted upwards, and pushed their way towards the sky.
I am a fallen tree.
And so the tree grows. It makes no pretence at normality: it leans upon others, and it finds a way to live, and to breathe, and to grow.
I am a fallen tree.
