Trees

In honour of my blog's most missed reader: CRM

My father-in-law and I sat on the veranda overlooking an early August morning on the farm.  The
horses were still lazy in their paddock.  The day was fresh; just beginning to warm in one of the driest summers I remember on our farm.  We sat in silence over our mugs of steaming, hot coffee.  We could sit in peace with each other, which I always liked.

Photo of the line of trees taken Oct 2013

The air had a crispness to it, a freshness; a different energy.  A line of alder and old evergreen trees on the length of our property boundary stood before us approximately two hundred feet away holding our eyes.  I cuddled in to my chair, my feet up, with knees huddled in to keep warmth.  There was something new in that line of trees.

I broke our silence with an analogy: One droplet of a colour, set in to clear water.  That colour is carried outward, permeating its secret to a new tone of being...  Autumn had begun.  He agreed.  He responded telling me of his love for autumn - the beauty he saw in it, how it was dear to him.

I have always loved Fall as well.  The fresh, crisp smells, the burst of colours that leave me and Little
M awe-struck.  The winds and breezes that dance with the trees, freeing them of last seasons' growth, setting them to the ground for nourishment and protection.  The chill that sets us inward, to reflect, to busy ourselves within - ourselves and our homes.  It is a peaceful, loving and introspective time.

It is October 20th now.  Almost one month has passed since he lost his battle to cancer.  The day he left, autumn was in full force.  The skies shifted from blue skies, to migrations of immense, powerful clouds erupting across it. Those clouds moved so fast.  The winds chased through the fields and shrubs outside of his window and took his life with them...

 

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Trees have always been something my eye have been drawn to.  When I travel, it is the trees that my eyes notice first.  I can not buy a real Christmas tree without the intention of buying one that I will then plant on our farm.  I can not kill a tree.  Seeing Christmas tree lots are like walking in to a butcher shop for me.  Yup, odd.  Even my daughter: one of her dreams is to just have a tree that she can climb.  There has always been a connection to trees, but the past months, trees were consistently and frequently in my field of view.


My father-in-law gave me a gift - a watercolour of an Alder tree, "Elder Alder".  It sits in my office to my left. 


My favourite time with him was during that mid-August trip he made to visit us just after he was diagnosed.  Himself, my daughter, and I went to the forested part of our property and sat on our meditation deck in front of a group of alders.  The entire morning, we did art.  He chose water colour, I chose to sketch in pencil, my daughter Little M, drew chalk on trees and did her own water colour.  She bravely showed her grandpa her creation and then fluttered around us as he and I just sat and created together.


Then the leaves began their brilliance.  I love the countryside most for the symphony of deep colours those trees bring.  Trees were on the forefront of my mind.



A couple of weeks after his fathers' passing, my husband encouraged me to connect with aspects of my cultural background - Buddhism, mindfulness, community.  A dear friend of mine South of the border informed me of a meditation retreat she had once lived and worked at.  Every so often, they would host a Day of Mindfulness.  We made plans to go together.

She and I met part-way on an early day in the first week in October.  Together we drove through the countryside, catching up and just taking in the vibrant, picturesque landscape.   Every turn was something out of a calender.   The trees were gorgeous.  Though I was nervous about feeling so incredibly raw, vulnerable and still in the aftershocks of our family's loss, the trees seemed to help anchor me as each one slipped by the car.

Our day consisted of sitting, walking and working meditations, a formal lunch, and a talk by Dharma teacher E. K..  To that point, I felt as though life was more and more intensely swinging from event-to-event, with just enough energy to grasp the next task.   Though I was feeling effective and productive in most things, I was well within the red-line of my reserves.  I did not feel like the"me" I am meant to be, in the moments where I was not doing.  Does that make sense?   Everything had now aligned with that day, and there I was.

Grove of trees on the walking meditation

E.K. spoke of community, of an analogy: trees.  Fancy that.  She noted  how one tree would take on all of the elements if standing alone out in a field.  Yet a forest or grove is a safe harbour.  It is a place that shares the elements, but is able to offer protection and shelter.  We thrive together.

I have written previously here about death - "compost" I believe I said.  Crass in some light, except in light of nature.  How so?

Seedling beside my meditation spot

A tree drops a seed.  Often times nearby its source.  It breaks ground, sharing the same soil of its parents.  It is somewhat harboured from the elements.  Yet independently, it throws out each branch (experience) along its tradgectory of growth.  Each branch reaches outward, collecting new energy and bringing it back to the trunk to relay energy to the roots to synthesize nutrients from the earth, or for upward growth.  The roots grow deeper, the tree grows upward and outward, from a strong centre.  It grows, not to be the tallest, but grows to best fulfill what it has the tendencies for and potential to be - a living thing which is robust, unique, gives back and has a place in the whole and most often times, is so incredibly vibrant in its own rite.  The stronger our root system (our history and foundation and connection to what truly counts), the greater chance our upward growth will be, if our centre/trunk maintains strength.  Sometimes our branches (experiences) grow to touch others, which helps when things get stormy.  We disperse the winds and elements as E.K. says.  Sometimes, the storms prune our branches, or sometimes we, ourselves must do so.  Yet all that falls, will fall to the ground, and over time, will become the strength of our foundation again.

Along the way, we inevitably lose those close to us.  As a life falls, we collect those branches of shared experiences, we mediate tough things, we feel how empty those pockets are where once our branches touched.  Everything that comes to light around losing our loved ones become part of our foundation.  They become a part of us in which ever way we choose to carry them forward.  

In the twelve years my father-in-law was in my life, I knew him as a caregiver, an artist, a beloved family member, and one who consistently supported my own endeavours.  He was a naval veteran, and a man who winced everytime me and my daughter offered him "nori" (Japanese seaweed snacks) - ha ha!  We liked to do that.  One of his strengths was that he was incredibly 'in the moment'.   He did not technically meditate that I know of, unless you consider doing his art or being amidst nature to be meditation (which I often times do).

In our last day of him being lucid, my husband, myself, and he sat over lunch in the warm sun and the cool air of September watching Little M off and again fluttering around the open field that we sat at the edge of.  I told him when he left our home in August, my husband and I felt our farm was at its' best for his time with us.  I told him I had then realized since, that it was not the farm that gave us such a peaceful, loving, slow and full visit.  It was him.  His presence carried his strength of just being in that moment, together.  And he brought that to all of us.  His strength made me realize how outside of myself I was.

For a while, I was giving everything to whatever I was doing (parenting, researching, working, projects, community, doing my best to support those I love), which sounds kind of good, but not when your branches are overloaded, and your foundation and trunk are having their resources diminished. 

I was often so busy sifting through the past so I wouldn't make mistakes in the future.  I strategized for the future, but it took my time from the moment I was in.  Again, I was investing my energy forward and back, so heavily in upward growth and in my roots, that the connection to both, the trunk, was teetering.  Who I am, truly am, who I value of myself, was not reflected in how I was doing things, from the priorities to the everyday moments.

Living in this way made my life spin by in overdrive - packing thoughts of 'should-dos', 'could have dones', and 'what ifs' tightly in to any moments that I could fit a thought in edge-wise.  It is the reason every event, even the small ones, seemed to require so much energy and little reprieve, and rarely any time to rejuvenate.  There was always more to process, more to jam in to my head and I had no inkling that I should turn it off; only the feeling that I was never able to do enough.

My father-in-law brought me this deeper realization of the cliche I thought I knew.  E.K's Day of Mindfulness helped give me the tools to be mindful of those moments.   The trees, well, they remind me along the way, and I appreciate all the reminders I can get.

Today, myself, my husband and daughter walked our farm property.  We started counting trees as a part of a homeschooling exercise - a piece of chalk in hand numbering each one as we went.  We got to twenty five, when, with great urgency, my daughter scurried over to a well-worn path in the grass, to a slight hole in the fence.  It was a place her older cousin "Z" used to play when he lived on the farm.  He showed her last year when he visited.  She begged to go through.  We threw our count of trees to the wind and slithered commando-style under the barbed wire in to the neighbours side of the fence.

There it was - a climbable tree.  A big ol' evergreen, with branches so low, they were like steps waiting for a little one to step up on.  She climbed, and climbed - so many branches perfect for little arms and feet to ascend upon.  I climbed after her, until I found a grouping of branches that reached outward almost crossing themselves.  It was like the palm of a hand it fit so well, so I lay back and just looked up at my daughter living a dream.  Up she went until she found a branch to sit upon and look down upon the two of us with a smile of complete joy across her face.  No thoughts in my head, just my daughter, my husband, and a big ol' tree in that same line of trees that my father-in-law and myself gazed at, that morning back in August.

To my 'darlin' CRM - we will always carry your light forward in all that we grow.

The "Only" Question

I recently came across an article that caught my eye ""8 Things Never to Say to a Mom of an Only Child" in The Stir section of The Huffington Post.  "Eight things to never say to a Mom of an Only", which include asking when you'll have another (and variations of that question), suggestions that people are lucky to be able to do 'x, y, z' because they only have one kid, and if you do say these things, it is "Hurtful. Insulting. Ignorant. Rude."

We have one child - a daughter.  We have had "The Talk" from those closest to us, on how we should give our daughter a sibling.  We've heard how lonely she will be, that she will be an orphan when we are gone, with no one else in the world.  We have had our ages pointed out to us, with a modest eyebrow raised.  Do I take it as "Hurtful. Insulting.  Ignorant. Rude."? 

If you are some passive-aggressive psychopath whose intention is to poke at what may be an incredibly personal choice, yes, I'd find it all of those things.   And if you are some passive-aggressive psychopath whose intention is to poke at what is an incredibly personal choice to me, you will not be in my life much longer - I have a good nose for those.  But if not, nobody has the time to always be considering where I am in my emotional journey for our family, especially when they are mothers themselves, with one,  or twelve children to mind.  I get that people speak from their own choices, experiences, and hopes.  So what then?  Does it still hurt to hear these statements and questions?... Our back-story for your information:

Our choice to have one child was made by us, and not.  My daughter, "Little M", was one year and one month old when I found out I was pregnant with our second.   Until I was 11 weeks pregnant, I bonded with our little one, sending love, rubbing my tum, making my body the best environment I could to host and build the little one nestled inside.  I reoriented myself in the new direction our lives were now going to go, dreamed of our daughter having a buddy to play with on the farm, wondered if it was a boy or a girl -we were sure it was a boy.  Then I got the phone call that our pregnancy had ended.  I was told the hormone levels had diminished, but as my mind leapt from one possibility to the next, all hope was cut when I heard "missed miscarriage". 

We mourned with those who were lovingly able to sit with us through the grief.  We moved forward with it, not from it.  In the years since, though a second would have been ideal for her, we understood that our lives were not in the place to give everything that a second child, and our current daughter deserved.  It was a decision that was based on what was right for us in the time we were at. My husband and I thought about it a lot, and heard first in our own minds all the questions others would ask, except we asked ourselves those questions some times daily.   So if the reason for asking is to see if we have considered things enough, I hope this gives people peace that we have. 

Life isn't always what you want.  Most often times, the best choices, are not the easiest. Sometimes, they are just choices.  But my point in writing this, is to share a different perspective of a mother to an "only", than the Huffington Post article:  I do not want people walking on eggshells around my life.  Perhaps I may not always take assumptions well, it actually gives a chance to open communication.

If you are in my circle, or are new to my circle and you do ask, I will give you an honest answer to what is appropriate for how well we know each other.  Because I assume it is with good intention, and no matter how hard it may be to respond, I do not want those in my circle to walk on egg-shells around me.  Life is hard, sometimes it gets messy.  I get sad, scared, unsure and undone, but at the end of the day, with the relationships that matter or those that have hope to continue,  I value and desire understanding just as much as you would for the challenges you face.  Healthy relationships are not about comparing, competing nor judging and if they are, it's time for an audit.

Often times, the things that were the most hurtful were not because of others being ignorant, insulting or rude.  It was either because they said nothing while walking on egg-shells, or because I was too raw myself.  I just needed time.  In that same vein, it was up to me to respond with boundaries: "I can't talk about this yet, it is too painful.", or "That’s very personal to me".  "There is more to the answer than I feel comfortable talking about right now, maybe another time".   OR “Not sure.  How about you?  When are you having more children?  Getting married?”. The last one is great for singles who just repeatedly use the question for an icebreaker, especially when they are kind of wankers.  One dude scoffed and took great offense to being asked about settling down.  I think he got it.  He’s never asked again.  Sometimes people just ask, because they have no idea.  That doesn't make them rude or ignorant.  But again, it is up to me to communicate boundaries.

I say stupid things all the time, based on my own experience.  If I offend, hopefully those in my life will have the same resilience with me to open up, rather than dismiss me.

People who have children, who have one, who have none, who had and lost a little one... life very rarely fits in a tidy box with a neat label.  There are no black and white answers or ideals - everyone deals with things differently when they are in the thick of life.  It is what makes us stronger and what gives us the lessons, the potential, the (sometimes undesired) kick in the ass to move in a direction we otherwise wouldn't have gone, through the fog of whatever experiences were had.

Is it better not to assume, judge, nor advise?  Yes.  I would appreciate if people came from the heart and went from there, and I am doing my best to learn to do so too (NVC/CC has been helpful in refining this).  But I get that hard things are often awkward.  Perhaps though, rather than it being a place to shut down communications, maybe it is a place to start.