If you live in Colorado, you know that the talk lately has been about the massive snowstorm that came through, blanketing us with feet of heavy, wet, Spring snow. “Oh, we needed the moisture,” and “This will keep us from having fires this summer” ringed through social circles. The grocery stores got hit with people stocking up on milk and bread, or, in our case, popcorn for movies and snacks to hold us over while we “hunkered down.”
The first day of snow was lovely. I moved all my clients to meet virtually and worked from home with cozy socks and Jeffrey snoozing nearby. But then the snow didn’t stop. And it continued to “not stop” as inch upon inch padded onto each surface around our property.
Our property is filled with pines, and they're just absolutely perfect. I say “property” implying a wilderness forest estate, where we live nestled into the thick woods and have frequent bear sightings. But really, we’re just very lucky to have a realtor (and friend) who helped us snag a beautiful home near a park, close to a trailhead, where deer are more our neighbors than our human neighbors. And that came with the gift of the established pines all around our yard.
By Thursday night, we were beginning to worry about the weight of the snow on some of our trees. We’d lost a few branches, and there was one tall, slender pine between our house and the neighbor that was leaning. And then leaning even further, and eventually was leaning over and touching her tip to the neighbor’s upstairs window. We watched anxiously through the windows all evening, as though our surveillance would somehow will the trees into staying upright and keeping their branches.
Just before bed I went outside and talked to the trees. I wanted to give them a pep talk and tell them how strong and capable they are. I wanted to remind them of their deep roots and how sturdy they are, and that they were here first and they knew what to do to survive under this weight. But I didn’t say any of that, instead, what came out of me was this:
“Let go of what you need to, break where you have to, please try not to damage anything in your release, and either way, we love you.”
We went to sleep, then woke up nervous to see what was lost through the night. I wanted to see that we’d lost no more branches and that the trees had rallied and stayed strong. But they didn’t. They released what they needed to under the weight of the snow. We shook the leaning tree and watched over the next several hours as she gently and almost imperceivably righted herself. But the big tree we have out front snapped one of its thickest and biggest branches. As we examined in the light of the morning, I called Michael over to show him that the massive tree branch had fallen right on the metal post (and sturdiest part) of our fence. If it had landed just a few inches in either direction, it probably would have broken the wooden planks of our fence. But instead, it had found a way to break that wouldn’t create much damage.
My strength and bravery are some of my favorite things about myself. My deep roots and securely centered ideas about who I am are badges of honor I wear proudly. But my fragility (and sensitivity) are elements of myself I will continue to try and love for my whole life. Even something strong, durable, or “big” still has limits, and still must allow itself to break under the weight sometimes. I’m so grateful for the lessen of the trees, that we are allowed to stay fragile, and it doesn’t mean anything about our strength, our beauty, or our purpose.
Perhaps you already know that you are allowed to break. Or perhaps you have broken before and created a bunch of unintended damage in that breaking. Perhaps that unintended damage was unavoidable for you to break in the way you needed. And perhaps the trees around you had to take action to keep themselves safe from your breaking.
I believe we are all fragile. Not because we are weak, but because we are alive. We are all fragile and sensitive, some to higher degrees than others. And I believe wholeheartedly that the fragility- this sensitivity to breaking is where we meet each other.
So instead of a pep talk about your bravery and strength (which I do happen to believe about you), I offer you (and myself) permission to be fragile. To stay fragile. To break where needed. I encourage you to try where possible to avoid collateral damage in your breaking, and even louder, I invite you to make amends - living or otherwise - to your fellow trees that may have been harmed when you’ve broken.
Are there places you need to break? Weighty branches you’ve been holding that are keeping your trunk from thriving? Is there love or amends you need to send to trees that have been harmed? Are there amends you may never receive that you feel you are owed…and does loving those breaking trees anyway, even from a distance, allow you to free up some weight on your own branches?
I love the is, Jesie. Your words are always timely, insightful, and encouraging.