Extraterrestrial
An unusual tree stands at the edge of a quiet inlet, off of a river that runs near my home. It is an otherwise common Ash - a deciduous tree known for its adaptability and capacity for networking - that is set apart by its growth habit. At some point, as the river met and sculpted the shore in their daily bargaining, the main trunk of the tree fell towards the water, its roots pulled from the beach and exposed like a tangle of electrical wiring. Had it been on dry land, the tree would probably have died, but in this muddy in-between-space, its roots were nourished by the river water. The roots sought earth and grew stronger, forging networks. New limbs sprang from the downed trunk, so that now, the life of the tree is supported by multiple pillars of growth. One trunk lurches toward the river, artfully offering a twisted bough and cascading leaves to high tide, which temporarily submerges the lower branches and bare roots during its daily visit. Another limb snakes upwards, where it meets the branch of a neighboring tree, their embrace half obscured by a curtain of bittersweet vine. Having transformed itself from a terrestrial to a terraquaeous form, it looks more like a fantastic, beached cetacean monster than a tree.
I think of this tree when I think about surviving grief. Grieving is neither neat nor pretty and to survive it, we withdraw to an inner navigation system. It involves reaching intuitively through dark and unfamiliar landscapes, finding comfort and sustenance in unexpected spaces and beings. If there is a pattern to the process, it is the alternating experience of plunging into the depths and coming up for air. At some point, we arrive on the other side, alive but in another form from when and where we began.
We witness so many griefs, so many stories of death and survival, in the natural world. The rhythmic inevitability of it can be a balm in itself, a reminder that we are not alone in our grief, it is part of the story of a living universe. On walks through the woods, I am often awed by the creative methods of existence employed by trees and other plants. Trees that seem to grow right out of a boulder, so tightly nestled was their rocky companion in their early roots. Plants that defy drought with their collective usage of water, poisonous vines that ward more sensitive areas from human interference with their telltale appearance. Pay attention to plants that have established themselves on the verges because they will tell you something about survival. Those on the edges of one habitat and another - urban/forest, soil/asphalt, water/land, hill/field, etc. - have learned to live in two different systems of being and to connect and build mutual support in both spaces. There is grief in the loss of thriving in one, whole ecosystem, but there is also a new grace acquired in the ambidexterous fluidity of living in multiple realities, all full of verdant possibilities.
