Ballast

This morning in a workshop titled Grief Wisdom, Soul Wisdom led by Charlene Ray. I was reminded of the David Wagoner poem Lost. This is a poem which has traveled with me for several decades now. I have it written on multiple index cards. Carried it in my pocket on long hikes. Journaled in response to it. Shared it with others. Even advocated to have it engraved on my mentor’s memorial bench after she passed in 2019.

I re-wrote the poem on an index card again this morning after the workshop.

It’s usually the first two lines of the poem that resonate most strongly with me.

Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside you

Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here.

I find comfort in being reminded that it is a human experience to feel lost, uncertain, confused, but it is not Nature’s experience. Stand in a grove of redwood or sequoia trees and you will immediately know what the poem means when it says, Wherever you are is called Here.

I often meditate on redwood or sequoia trees standing for centuries. Full of purpose without seeking purpose. Full of knowing without having to ask questions. The human world revolves in states of constant movement, change, chaos around them. Peace time. War time. They stand. Still. Here. Snow falls. Spring comes. Rivers fill. They stand. Still. Here.

This morning, however, it was the last two lines which most struck me.

Stand still. The forest knows

Where you are. You must let it find you.

In 500 years since the Trump administration came into power in late January, it has not been easy to stand still. It is impossible to trust our government. Difficult to have faith in the ability of the Democratic party to conjure a stance and narrative which will resonate with the country and help pull us up out of this nosedive come the midterms. We lack an opposition leader around which we can rally. A leader willing to risk power and position for the sake of the collective good, morality, and justice. I don’t know what to do. Does anyone know what to do?

The redwoods and sequoias have seen presidencies come and go. They have been witnesses to “dark times” and revolutions. They grieved colonialism and slavery. They felt the vibrations of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima. They knew there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. The desert wind blown across the oceans told them. How many human hands have pressed against their bark over the centuries and whispered pleas for solace, respite, kindness? Far too many to possibly count. I am counting my own hands. The trees know we are prone to do harm to ourselves. To becoming lost and violent within the imperfections of our baser natures. They do not understand it – this proclivity for self-destruction – but it certainly, by now, doesn’t surprise them.

We feel called to act. Do something. Anything. We fill our earholes with political analysis and opinion. We dry out our eyes with images of people in power behaving villainously and the pundits discussing and discussing and discussing. We talk and talk and talk about the horrors of it all with one another. Maybe we protest. Maybe we don’t. We protested before and what did that get us? Our hearts hurt. We have no stillness. Nature cannot find us. Cannot find us to remind us that it is still true that a tree’s roots stretch underground to support its tree kin – each tree holding up the next when the winds come. The winds have come.

The forest knows where we are as a citizenry. It has seen it all before. So, maybe, just maybe, if we stand still long enough, if we allow our hearts to rest in stillness, we can hear their wisdom and understand it to be true. From there perhaps we can act.

The invitation this week is to be in nature. Leave your phone and earbuds behind. The smartwatch too. The number of steps you take does not matter. In fact, if you’re able, take very few steps at all. Stand with your back against a tree. Close your eyes. Listen. Listen deeply. The trees are simply waiting for us be still enough to hear them.

If you want to journal, here are a few ideas:

1. Read Wagoner’s poem. Identify a line (or two), a phrase, or a word that resonates with you. Write about why it resonates.
2. Make a list of questions you have for a favorite tree. (and then go ask the tree!)
3. Trees exist within a miraculous complex web of other trees, mycelium, wildlife, insects, seasons, weather patterns. They grow both above and below. Write about the miraculous complexity of your own existence. Write about your interdependencies on the beings around you (human and non-human). Think beyond your family and friends. Consider the person who bags your groceries at the store or the receptionist at the hospital who has to quickly assess the urgency of the presenting need. Remember the rhododendron in the woods awaiting spring. Think of the bear slumbering. We are currently being programmed to distrust one another. Resist that programming by seeing yourself and others as a part of the miracle.

May your ballast this week be the bare ground on which you can stand. In stillness. Awaiting the wisdom of the trees to whisper truth to you.