My Friend- Willow

There is a willow tree on our land that I have loved for years.

I remember when she was small. I remember watching her take hold, stretch upward, spread outward, and become herself.

Now she is huge.

She has become part of the geography of my life.

Birds rest in her branches. Cats climb her. Children have climbed her. Her leaves whisper and rattle in the wind. She shades the ground beneath her and changes the feel of the whole space simply by being there.

And she is tenacious.

Willows are like that.

They seem soft and graceful, all those long sweeping branches moving beautifully in the breeze, while underneath they are apparently thinking, I have decided to live here and good luck stopping me.

I admire that about her.

For years, though, I think I understood our relationship in only one direction.

I planted Willow.

I cared for Willow.

I watched Willow grow.

I loved Willow.

But recently, while sitting with her, I began to understand that perhaps I have been telling only half the story.

What if Willow has been in relationship with me too?

What if she has not simply been standing beside my life, but participating in it?

She has been here through seasons and storms, births and deaths, laughter and grief, animals coming and going, children growing, ordinary afternoons, terrible days, beautiful days, and thousands of moments I have already forgotten.

And all the while, Willow remained.

Listening.

Speaking.

Hearing.

Giving.

Receiving.

Connected through her roots to the soil and through her branches to the sky.

Alive in ways I am only beginning to understand.

I found myself considering something I might once have dismissed.

Perhaps a tree can know.

Perhaps a tree can feel.

Perhaps a tree can love.

And perhaps relationship doesn't require another being to speak our language before it becomes real.

Then, as I sat noticing Willow's beauty, strength and presence, I heard:

“She is beautiful. And you.”

Well.

Apparently I had invited myself to a conversation with a tree and ended up in therapy.

Because that little “And you” landed.

I can recognize beauty in Willow without hesitation.

I can admire the way she has grown.

I can appreciate her strength.

I can marvel at everything she has survived and everything she has become.

I don't look at her and think:

You know, Willow, you really should have accomplished more by now.

I don't wonder whether she has maximized her potential.

I don't compare her to the cedar down the road and suggest perhaps she should develop a five-year growth plan.

I don't require anything from her before I decide she is magnificent.

She simply is.

And somehow, that is enough.

Maybe the invitation was not only to see Willow differently.

Maybe it was to see myself differently too.

What Willow Is Teaching Me

Willow is teaching me about belonging.

She belongs to the earth beneath her.

She belongs to the rain that feeds her.

She belongs to the birds in her branches and the insects beneath her bark.

She belongs to the wind that moves through her leaves.

She belongs to the cats who climb her, the children who have played beneath her, and perhaps even to the woman who sometimes sits nearby trying to figure out the meaning of life while Willow quietly gets on with being a tree.

But none of those relationships make her less herself.

They make her part of something larger.

And maybe that is true for us too.

I have spent much of my life loving animals, plants and the natural world.

I have thought of myself as the one doing the loving.

The one caring.

The one protecting.

The one noticing.

But what if love has been moving toward me all this time too?

What if the animals who shared my life were not simply receiving my love, but loving me in ways particular to them?

What if the garden has been feeding more than my body?

What if the land has held me?

What if the water, trees, birds and wind are not merely things I experience, but relationships I participate in?

What if Willow has been loving me in the way Willow knows how to love?

Not with words.

Not with declarations.

With presence.

With shade.

With shelter.

With roots sunk deep into the same earth I walk across every day.

With leaves moving in the wind above a life she has quietly witnessed for years.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether one of the great human misunderstandings is believing that we are the only ones participating.

We look at a tree.

We listen to a bird.

We walk across the land.

We sit beside the ocean.

And we assume the experience begins and ends with us.

But perhaps the world is not simply waiting to be observed.

Perhaps it is meeting us.

Perhaps inhabiting your life fully also means recognizing how much of your life has been loving you back.

That changes the way I understand belonging.

I am not a visitor standing outside the natural world, appreciating its beauty.

I am inside it.

Entangled in it.

Dependent upon it.

Giving to it and receiving from it.

Part of one living system of relationship.

The willow and the woman.

The bird and the branch.

The soil and the root.

The animals and the humans who love them.

Not separate lives happening beside one another.

One life, expressing itself in countless forms.

And maybe that is why sitting beside a tree can sometimes feel like coming home.

You May Be Wondering…

Can we really have a relationship with a tree?

You don't have to believe exactly what I believe to explore the question.

You can begin much more simply.

Notice.

Is there a tree you have known for years?

A particular place on the land that draws you?

A garden you tend?

A stretch of beach where something inside you becomes quiet?

A bird whose arrival you recognize?

A plant you check on each morning without even thinking about it?

Go there.

And instead of asking what you can receive from that place, simply be with it.

Notice what is alive around you.

Notice what changes when you stop treating nature as background.

And perhaps, just for a moment, allow yourself to wonder:

What if I am not the only one noticing?

You do not need an answer.

You do not need to turn it into a spiritual experience.

You certainly do not need to corner your favorite maple tree and demand clarity about the relationship.

Just become receptive.

Listen.

Notice.

Love.

And see what happens when the world around you is no longer made up of things—

but of beings with whom you share this extraordinary life.

Perhaps you will discover, as I am beginning to, that you have never been as separate as you thought.

Perhaps you will recognize old companions you had mistaken for scenery.

And perhaps you will realize that while you were busy loving this beautiful world—

it was loving you too.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.