The Trees I Couldn't Move or How to Navigate Grief One Log at a Time

Recently I decided to hike the Falls Creek Fall trail in Gifford Pinchot National Forest. Part-way up, I found that the USFS had locked a gate across the forest road to the trailhead . There was minimal snow and I was curious to understand the closure. I soon found out. Blow down.

It looked like some giant had spent days angrily throttling the trees, and the road was covered with shattered branches and entire tree trunks. I moved a few smaller branches aside and then decided to do a little trail clearance. I tugged some downed saplings off the road, but the larger logs wouldn't budge. Some were too big or were trapped between other trees. And there I was without my portable chainsaw and excavator (ha ha).

Some trunks had splintered near their base and their interiors were a striking orange-red. Every so often, this flaming color popped up to contrast with the deep green of the Ponderosa Pines.

By the time I covered the two miles to the trailhead I was covered in mud and tree debris, and had lost a hiking pole – something I didn’t discover until I was back at my car.

The parallel (of course there's one): there are obstacles in facing grief that can be addressed. Others, like the sapling that twanged itself back after a spectacular wrestling match, cannot. Some are so rooted in expectations or engrained habits that they leave you metaphorically muddied and covered in debris.

Sometimes your grief, like torn down branches, seems to be everywhere. Sometimes there are stretches of time that are clear. Sometimes you lose your hiking poles -- and your balance -- and it seems impossible that you’ll ever clear your grief path.

Grief requires patient attention and deep sympathy. You can move one sapling-like challenge at a time. However, there may be many, and they may not be ready to move. They may be splintered with pain. They may be lodged between other griefs. You will learn the angles of your griefs, where they have come from, what generational grief they are lodged in, and how to gently move them out of the way. Sometimes you will have to leave them to soften so that, eventually, you can roll them aside.

I'm learning how to move what can be moved and to wait for what can't. I’m learning what is already softening and what needs more rain, more tenderness, more time. And in the interim I'm learning the flame-like beauty of the inside of pain.

NOT generated by AI.