A winter walk with my dog revealed something unexpected — the trees had lessons to teach about resilience, imperfection, and reaching for the light.
I went for a winter walk today. Not a summer stroll, because that is quite a different thing. I decided to take a walk with my dog as the few remaining leaves clung to the branches.
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And I noticed something.
Most trees had some sort of irregularity to their structure. With the leaves all gone and their false face dropped to the ground, they revealed crooked limbs and trunks that often leaned to the left or right, tossed by the wind, stretching toward the light.
Some of the trees had found themselves crowded by others and had learned to seek the open space in between. Others had lost limbs, showing damage from horrible thunderstorms that had torn through the neighborhood only the summer before.
And yet, there was a beauty to each and every one of them. Their bark smooth and marked, each showing an individual experience of life, each showing a reaction to the world around them — and yet a desire to keep reaching for the light.
And I remembered: my task is not to repair what life has shaped, but to keep reaching for the light from where I stand now
It was a chill day, and I pulled my sweater tight, and the dog kept leading me on the leash.
Pulling me here and there, I couldn’t help but notice the brilliant colors of the leaves that remained on the variety of trees — the last vestiges of a lush summer. I grabbed a dark, dark purple plum leaf from a sweet gum, its deep purple almost black, and held it in my hand.
Perhaps I was trying to hold on to the summer gone by, and I knew it wouldn’t last. But for now, I carried it, clutching it in my pocket.
As we took a bend in the road, I noticed a cluster of brilliant yellow leaves remaining on a young Shantung maple. Catching the winter light, they shimmered and proudly blew in the wind. The tree was only a few years old and cast a perfectly symmetrical silhouette.
We all show the marks of a life well worn.
We tend to try to hide them behind leafy camouflage, but in the end, they are revealed to us — our uniqueness, our specialty, our individuality. And yet they also show an incredible resilience.
For it is with that wind that we learn to lean against things and challenge those forces in our lives that seem overwhelming at the time but leave a beautiful asymmetry to our form.
The cobalt blue winter sky beckoned me on, and as I got closer to my home, I noticed the stand of beautiful, shimmering Shumard red oaks in my front yard.
When we bought the house, I was immediately drawn to the trio of mature trees. They had formed a beautiful canopy where many people would park in their shade. Five summers ago, a fierce tornado passed by and ripped one of the trees from the group. It fell to the ground, leaving a huge hole in the canopy.
At the time, I was brokenhearted.
Now only two remained, yet I noticed they were slowly growing back. Their canopies filled the gap left by the loss, and from a distance, you could hardly notice the damage.
Winter is a time for us to take stock and notice who we are and what we are. But it is also a time to give thanks and express gratitude for all that we have survived.
As I approached my driveway, I pulled a bright, brilliant orange-green leaf from a Cotinus americanus (smoke tree) I had planted near the mailbox. I removed all three leaves from my pocket and noticed the amazing harmony of their colors.
Perhaps I could make a painting using the same color palette, or perhaps I would let them fall from my pocket and reclaim the ground.
I took one last gulp of the crisp winter air before leading Roo through the front door.
I gave thanks for this cool winter walk.
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