Witness Trees

You would think from inside the tangle ball of grief and loss that the easiest way to claim air for a precious breath would be close to the surface. I am finding that the surface air outside this tangle ball is too crisp for my newborn lungs that need darkness and humidity to breathe with more ease. The surface air just beyond the tangle ball is for the professional breathers, the mature lungs that can handle the harsher air and even process the toxins. 

Trees, bare in the winter, have often reminded me of nerve endings stretching up from the earth, especially the Aspens with eyes on their trunks watching from the side of a snow covered mountain. Trees without leaves are reflections of their root systems hidden underground. These beautiful nature beings are truly the lungs of the planet that have part of their intelligence visible and part hidden in the underworld. The communications that occur through their root systems are vast and intricate. 

Some trees have lived so long, endured such tremendous events, including acts of God and acts of humans, they are known as Witness Trees. There is one in a nature preserve on Avery Island in Louisiana where Tabasco Sauce is made that stood witness to the civil war. It has bullets in it, and yet it continues to feel and breathe.

The other day, standing among a circle of trees at the very center of the land where I live, I realized that there is an air pocket. A larger circle contains the tree circle. The brush piles from the last few freezes and our rainwater tank create a thick wall to the east. The pool is to the west, the wet weather week to the north, and the fire pit that Edmond built is to the south. Within this little encampment, the intertwined canopy of branches of cedar and oak trees above me creek and groan in the subtle breeze that blows toward the creek. They speak of me to each other and to me directly. The trees acknowledge my pain and presence. I stood there in this protected clearing and realized I could breathe more easily here in the air pocket at the center of the tangle ball where the trees and I exchange both breath and emotions. 

Right now, my lungs, like the rest of me, are highly sensitive. Sharp smells or air that is too hot or cold are jolting to my system. My sense of smell, which has always been a superpower in the past, is heightened to a degree that is now often uncomfortable. Normally, I love complex flavors and scents, spicy foods, but now I gravitate to what can only be described as mild.

In Traditional Chinese Medicine, the lungs are the organ associated with grief and loss, constantly taking in the new air and releasing the old. Each breath is born on the inhale and dies on the exhale.  

When I have worked with clients who have suffered losses or traumas that send their adrenal system into states of shock and hyper-vigilance, we do a lot of soothing work through the imagination and the body. When the body is in adrenal response, we must fight, flight, freeze, or fawn to survive. Survival mode is not sustainable over the long-term. It is impossible to heal when we are trying to not die. And being triggered into trauma states feels like impending death. 

Getting the body to agree that the past traumas are not currently happening or at least that death is not at the door is a patient and slow process. Our bodies have a memory, an intelligence. They hold onto what we cannot fully process until it is safe to do so. I have some deep-ass pockets in my body that have stored trauma and loss for decades. Truly, this overall-style skin-suit is replete with endless pockets that lead to my hips, neck, back, and belly. Overstuffed pockets of unprocessed pain create physical trouble in our bodies. When those pockets are finally turned out, opened to release the emotional content, it is because it is safe and supported to do so. 

I have encouraged clients who are entering this transformational process after a severe shock to their system to treat themselves like a newborn baby. Tending a newborn is gentle, kind, slow, and merciful. There can be no harsh words spoken to a new human entering this physical plane. Everything is a new experience. In our newborn state post-loss, we must forgive ourselves for the resistance that arises, the anger and tears due to the discomfort of everything unfamiliar. We are newborns after all, and that is what a new being does as they learn to be in a new land. 

I am a newborn who is grateful to be held and swaddled in the hands of my community.

It is the witnessing by other beings, trees or humans, that somehow peels back the a layer of the blanket of grief. Without contact and connection, this grief becomes suffocating. Your ability to witness my tears allows a layer to lift because heavy lifting takes many hands. 

We all have the capacity to be witness trees, standing, holding, listening, releasing the toxins on the exhale. My community holds safe a precious air pocket. You all communicate through a vast root system to the network and show up right when I need it. I live in a forest of witness trees.