The Grief Tree

in the foothills

of the blue ridge mountains,

somewhere between cattle farms

and mono-cropped plains,

lives a tree

that took root

when the island

of ancestors

was still inhabited

only

by those who whisper

the names of plants

before that of men,

and earth was asked

permission to

step politely

across her soil.

somewhere at the edge of a dirt road,

cleared just long enough for logging trucks

or irrigation equipment

to scrape the underbrush of those that lined it,

there is a tree.

this tree—

this unnamable, eternal, massive tree

stood awkwardly in the crowd

of canopy

in a shape that

cast light on

all that surround it

but never upon itself.

it, more specifically, could

be recognized by the break right

down the centerline

innards splayed at edges

of unlinked bark;

fresh warm leaves

still pushing

their way through

battered limbs

that dangled just above the ground.

around the roots

grew all sorts of offerings:

found stones

the occasional coin or image

and forgotten carvings in the damp soil.

many think that

because this old,

magnificent tree still grows-

despite its pain-

it’s miraculous.

and people travel

from around the world

to offer their hands

at the foot

of the grief tree

in hopes of healing their broken insides, too.

telling myths of millennia ago

and how this tree came to be born.

the story goes

something like this:

before humans roamed the earth,

before chickens and tropical fruit,

the entire earth was covered

in giant mushrooms,

and from the spores

original trees were born.

these trees one day were broken

in a terrible storm that called

the seas to swell over land and

the clouds to collapse atop branches.

the toppling of such mother trees

caused the earth to split in three:

above

terrestrial

below.

as stars fell

to the bottoms of ocean floors

life formed in all directions:

the octopus

the deer

the snakes

all animated.

eventually small trees would return, too.

and humans.

as the sun warmed the Land

crops became more fertile

and food forests were abundant.

humans and animals and

plant kind were all connected.

and the mountains stood as

memorialized stumps of ancestor

oak and pine and birch.

as the first springtime shifted

into a blanket of summer

and then as sap ran

from the sunset-stained trees

there was a ripeness in the air

that all sentient beings knew to be true:

a change.

a readiness

had arrived.

and then, it happened—

the first leaf

let go.

and the aspens shook

and the buffalo stampeded

and the sky cried for four days.

and more leaves let go.

and so did the buffalo and deer.

the snake no longer moved to shed its skin.

and the humans started to release their grip, too.

eventually, the trees were surrounded

with leaves and

people who let go were placed there

also.

the ones who remained watched the trees transform.

they would welcome new saplings and

witness decay turning to earth.

years passed, and they noticed the bark

hugging their loved ones,

nourishing the roots,

bringing fruit to the tips of branches.

they came to understand the tree as a sort of

God,

a teacher,

a friend,

a relative

who taught them of time,

growth and

letting go.

even today, people seek the trees for wisdom.

this tree though -

the one in the Blue Ridge mountains

is the daughter of one of the original trees.

it is a miracle, indeed, that she is standing

after so many seasons:

tattered, broken.

but she lives not because

of her magical beginnings

or ability to hold those through the end.

she lives because of the tears

of those who find her.

this is her magic, árbol de duelo:

the grief tree.

*thank you for reading this story inspired by the intersection of my work with end-of-life and the beautiful beings I’ve had the joy of facilitating.

your contributions are so appreciated and help me continue to write. for more, order my book: wayofthetrees.com