I remember standing tall, looking down, and feeling sorry for the fallen. I worried about falling someday: not being able to feel the sun, see the sky, or breathe the cool ocean air. The fallen ones just lay uprooted with broken branches and nothing to do but decompose.
But now that I am down here looking up, everything looks different. I was wrong. I don’t miss the things I thought I would, and I have discovered so many new things I never even imagined possible.
Down here, it’s warm and still. A family of squirrels nests safely among my branches. Mice have burrowed under my upended roots. All day long, I watch them all scurry about, the youngest ones playing tag while the older ones gather food. Then there are the chipmunks. They are my favorite. You can see them popping their heads up all over the place. You've never seen anything so fast. I miss the rabbits. They don’t come around as much since the coyotes arrived, but I know they’ll be back. That’s one of the things I learned down here: everything travels in circles.
I still have a few roots connected to the network, and I call out now and again, but the younger ones are all too busy growing to answer. I just want them to know how nice it is down here – that there is nothing to worry about. I’ll keep trying, but I remember how I was then.
Something about being uprooted lets you settle. It's ironic, I know; I think it’s the realization that you’ve always been on your own. That might sound sad, but that’s not how it feels. Once you stop trying to measure up, there is a calm that happens, like stepping out of a cold wind you’ve been leaning into. You start to hear birds, see the way the clouds change in the light, and you never miss a rainbow. Being on your own really means feeling connected to everything everywhere that you used to think was nothing.
Just the other day, I noticed a pinecone hanging a bit crooked. I looked closer and saw it was dangling by just a few strands. So, I settled in to watch. I had never actually seen a pinecone fall. I knew they must since they start on the trees and end on the ground – though maybe I have that backward, too. But either way there is some traveling involved.
Watching something that is not happening is more exciting than you would think. Lying there watching nothing, it occurred to me that we miss a lot when we look away from nothing. I thought of some favorite memories. They all took place in the middle of nothing: sitting in the living room with my family (feeling a bit bored), going for a walk in a big circle (so we never really got anywhere), and driving in the car with everyone asleep on the ride home.
When the sun dropped, the light hit the top of the cone, and it let go. Just like that, it was falling. You could see it was all smiles, like a kid in the front car of the roller coaster, hands raised, mouth open, and racing down the track—flying.
I watched it give a little celebration hop when it landed, roll a couple of times, and then stop in an open spot where I knew the sun was always good and plenty of rain would get through.
That seed is going to grow into a tree. And I am going to be here for it. If I keep decomposing the way I have been, I’m actually going to become part of that tree. And that is the biggest thing I’ve learned, the thing I wish I could share with everyone: when you stop trying to grow up and start growing down, it’s like realizing you know how to float. The trick is to slow down enough, so you feel the water trying to cradle you.
That pinecone is probably a little scared right now. I mean, the fall looked like fun, but then you land, and you are alone and not sure what is going to happen next. That can be rough. Well, as soon as she gets a root going and connects to the network, I’m going to let her know I'm right here – we all are, and we’re ready to help.
She might be too busy growing up to hear me, and I get that. I know I was, but I’m going to keep telling her anyway. I’m going to tell her there’s no rush, and each time, I'm going to wait to see if she asks Why. And when she does ask, I’m going to explain it all. But for now, I’m just going to wait.
I know I can’t teach her anything until she’s ready. And like I said, there’s no rush. Things happen in their own time, when you let them.
Pinecone