What the trees whispered

on listening to what we don't want to hear

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A song I’m loving:

Incoming, 35mm film

I went to the forest on Friday, called by an unseeable voice: come my way. Let me help you remember. My body was urging me to place itself in the middle of something beautiful¹, something bigger than it. I woke that morning with my guts and stomach in knots, my grief feeling more heavy, the to-do lists and not-yet-figured-out choices gnawing at me. I’ve learned over time that when my body speaks in this way, through these symptoms, it will do no good to sit down at a table and try to map it, tackle it, fix it. Trust me — I’ve tried, countless times, and it always leads to more knots, a deeper inner tangle. What my body and spirit need in those moments is beauty, a reset, spaciousness, breathing room, a zooming out, an experience residing outside of the thinking mind... and, if possible, time outside.

A web woven, 35mm film

I have never prayed in a church or to a man in the sky. I didn’t grow up in a religious home; I’ve only been inside a church to attend weddings and funerals. I identified as atheist for most of my life until recently, when I began sensing and feeling something beyond myself, somehow both unknowable and knowable— not God, for me, but a felt sense I still haven’t quite figured out what to name, one that still feels too intimate and fresh to even share.

When I am with nature, I find myself asking her for guidance, for a knowing. Help me understand, I say out loud, even while alone. When I got to the forest on Friday and started walking, the questions came forward naturally. What do I need to know? I asked one tree in particular, the roots of them seeming deeper than all the others. A tear streamed down my face as I stood in front of this giant aged beauty, wisdom far beyond my understanding. I felt my smallness and their bigness, yet I also felt our inherent connection — our life intertwining simply by being in the company of one another. I felt their aliveness mirroring mine, their sturdiness helping me remember my own. I felt something I never feel when I look at a screen, when I think about whether or not to share the photo, the post, the insight. The message they gave me when I asked what I need to know came through like clarity: log the fuck off of Instagram. Yes, it turns out the trees swear sometimes, too.

Seaside blooms, 35mm film

Today is the autumn equinox, a moment of balance before a slow emergence of the dark. I have been reflecting on what I want this next season to look like, to feel like. What wisdom do I need that fall might carry?
What is asking to be re-shaped in this season?
What does autumn have to tell me?
Will I be willing to listen when the guidance comes?

This last part is perhaps most important because on Friday, when the trees urged me to log the fuck off of Instagram, I immediately came up with at least five reasons I can’t/shouldn’t/don’t want to do that. What will I miss out on? What about my work? How else will I stay relevant? How will my next book sell if I’m not constantly tending to my online presence? What about the enjoyment from knowing what other people are up to, getting updates and insights on the upcoming election, hearing about mutual aid opportunities, sharing reminders as an act of service, what about what about what about?

Sometimes, knowing what is good for us feels very different than doing the thing that is good for us. Knowing we’re supposed to drink enough water is different than consciously sipping our glass throughout the day. Knowing we feel better when we get enough sleep is different than taking the steps to support our sleep practice. Knowing it helps to ask for help is different than reaching out to a friend for guidance. Knowing when we receive good guidance is different than actually listening to that guidance. Knowing is different than doing, and I find this to be so relevant in this season of being urged by nature herself to log off, turn in, get quiet, and listen.

Vivid beauty, 35mm film

October is going to be a big month for me. My daughter turns three; I start a certificate program for psychedelic-assisted therapy and research; I have my own personal medicine work scheduled; a concert, house projects, preparation and research for the election and whatever results it will bring, continued dreaming and scheming for shifts in my offerings next year, and the ongoing integration of it all. During months of fullness, I want to practice asking myself: how can I make myself more available for all this? How can I be more attuned to what I’m moving through? What would make it easier to stay with what’s happening?

And because of this, logging off feels like a prayer. It feels like a prayer for more presence, more capacity, more availability, more practice being in the liminal without distraction, more practice staying with discomfort instead of scrolling away from it, more practice trusting the unfolding of my work instead of thinking I must share in order to remain relevant, more practice going deeper, even when it means temporarily giving up the surface-level offerings and connections. And, the trees told me to, so I want to practice listening.

I Happened To Be Standing
by Mary Oliver

I don’t know where prayers go,
or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can’t really
call being alive.
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that’s their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.

While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don’t know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn’t persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don’t. That’s your business.
But I thought, of the wren’s singing, what could this be
if it isn’t a prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air.

The trees whispered to me as I looked up, as I heard only the sounds of birdsong and insects buzzing, the wind whipping through the canopy. Log off. Be fully in this season, with as little distraction and numbing as possible. Forget the small worries — take the time away. Let it shape you. A gift; A prayer. I am listening, my face to the fog, my heart open to the discomfort listening brings.

May this season nourish your willingness to listen.
May autumn’s lessons weave their way into your heart.
May you trust the right choice and follow its breadcrumbs.
May you allow wisdom beyond yourself to seep in.
May the questions that linger be tended to with care.
May you take the spaciousness your spirit so deeply needs.
May you let yourself pay attention as prayer.
May grief be filled with the nourishment of your own presence.
May fall’s darkening help illuminate what needs remembering.
May the trees guide you more than an Instagram post does.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

△ Text the aunties more photos

△ This episode with Liz Migliorelli on Off The Grid

△ Reflections on time

△ Compassionate action for November and beyond

△ Having a sweet new herb shop in town

△ Toko-pa Turner’s beautiful upcoming book

△ Honest conversations about money

△ The trees that whispered their wisdom to me

grateful for these sacred teachers.

With care,
Lisa

1. Cheryl Strayed once shared her mother’s advice to “put yourself in the way of beauty” and I think of those words often — I think of that urging often.