“If you want to know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.” — Hal Borland
It seems that in the fall, I spend a great deal of time feeling tremendous respect for trees. More than the richness of their colors and the dignity with which they prepare for their fallow season, I feel humbled by their grace. The manner in which they bend when the wind demands their attention; the stately pride with which they accept that time will effect its plan.
A good friend of mine has been on a fantastic roll lately. Meeting new people, finding that her voice has more range and depth than she imagined (reminds me of Katy Perry‘s song “Roar”). Her life – her new life has reflected her enthusiasm, zest and openness to the thrill of possibility. I’ve shared in this delight of course, just as I am here today when the rhythm slows, the endorphins need replenishment and the bubbles are now on simmer. Nothing is wrong, yet what happened to the effervescence? The days of delight?
Jo wonders about her ‘next whatever’, feeling that its elusiveness is akin to a burr under a horse’s saddle. Itchy and unsettled, we spend many an email considering the what ifs, could bes, and shoulds – and we end up back at the reality that life is going to unfold whether we are patient or not.
Patience. The art of being still. Of understanding that there are fallow periods, which require only that we gain strength and sustenance and an understanding of who we are becoming. There’s something a little unsettling about it I think. It took me two years to undo the pleasurable and neurotic remnants of working in biglaw. To finally realize that the primary takeaway – the only takeaway – is that I made a difference, perhaps to a few people over the span of decades. I choose to hold onto some cherished memories. I didn’t leave the firm with grace in my heart – a story for another day perhaps. I struggled to understand that my next whatever would be as serendipitous as the one I had just experienced. I still do (struggle that is) – just not as much.
I write a lot about duality; it’s so much a part of our human construct. Yet in the fall I look to the trees. They are indomitable and unfazed, welcoming both bird and squirrel, a child’s foot nestled between its trunk and branch. Silently knowing that regardless of preference or wish, hope or daydream, the most important element it brings to the fall is its presence. Its being. Time I think to take a moment under the trees, sway under the harvest moon and just watch life and love unfold.