The Language of Trees

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

My mother told me once that the trees will speak to you if you listen hard enough. I used to think this was a little over the top, until they started speaking to me too. Their leaves whispered secrets and sometimes when I placed my hand against the bark I swear I could feel a pulse. Trees became some of my greatest comfort.

And then I found out that it’s more than just mysticism; they really do have their own language.

They communicate through their roots, underground, in a web of distress signals and sharing of resources.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this.

Above ground, trees appear isolated.
Below the surface, they thrive in connection.

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Root was almost my word for 2020.

I soon realized power was going to be where I focused, but root still burrowed deep, waiting for when I would need her.

Like now.

When I’m not rooted, I’m like a leaf. I’m airborne. It sounds better than it really is: the slow fall to the ground is rarely as romantic as you would imagine. I find myself unable to focus, flighty, and unstable. Who knows where I will land? Not me. I can’t even see where I’m going. When I’m not rooted, I open my eyes from being in the air too long and don’t recognize my surroundings. I don’t recognize me.

I’m a stranger in a strange land and I have no idea how to get back home.

//

Here’s a truth: I know what it takes for me to feel rooted and yet sometimes I resist it like we do pain. Here, behind this screen, I feel more alive and me than I have in months. And yet, every time I open up a new white space I feel the fear begin to creep it’s way to my fingers. I think of the message I heard at the beginning of the year when I wanted so badly to do so many things and instead got the sickest I have in years. Rise slowly, my gut said. So I did. I put everything on pause. I waited. I recovered. I wondered if this part of me was on hold indefinitely.

Looking back, I feel the breath catch in my throat just thinking about what would have happened had I rushed forward anyways. Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. But I recognize the way my body reacts as if I’m already beginning to detach from the branch and I inhale to root myself deeper.

Here’s another truth: roots take time to settle into the soil. And these past few years I’ve replanted myself over and over and over again, moving into a broader existence of living and space. It makes sense that muscle memory might not be as strong as it used to because my words are navigating from completely new landscapes.

So we excavate. We find the roots.

//

A friend told me a few weeks ago that she kept thinking of rebirth during this season where we’re all trying to remember what it feels like to wrap our arms around someone we love and haven’t seen in a while. I told her I kept thinking of trees. Of rooted systems reaching deeper and deeper still for resources and nourishment. Of one ecosystem breathing for another.

I watch as people I’ve never seen before walk past our window and I wonder if they know. I pause for a moment, take a sip from a cocktail Russ made me, and let them pass by as I silently send them hope.

There’s danger here, we whisper.
But you are not alone. Listen for our heartbeat. Together we’ll get through this.