When Life Becomes Poetry Again
A view from the bottom of the cliff
In the summer of 2018, we were hit by some serious storms. One such, hit my decorative Weeping Cherry tree you see in the picture above. If you were to zoom in on the picture, you might see the scarred black section of the tree’s trunk on the left. This is where it was struck by lightening and a major limb was severed. That fall, the tree didn’t look so good. The following spring, it looked worse. A very, slim few of the branches started to half-heartedly produce buds. My husband wanted to take it down. “It’s dead,” he told me.
I refused his prophecy. “I love that tree. Let’s give it some time,” I requested, stubbornly.
Less than a quarter of the tree eventually flowered and produced leaves that year. My husband was more than a little certain in his rightness. But this isn’t a story about my husband, because don’t we all assume this often—life is over, the green thing is dead, best to accept death as final and move on. And it’s not about me either—because I often hang on past the point of what is sensible.
Yet. There’s more to the story. That picture is from one week ago. The tree is even fuller with blooms today. In fact, I think this is the most abundant I’ve ever seen this cherry tree. It sits outside my kitchen window where I get to watch it shift and change and transform from the dullness of winter to the electric brightness of spring. Hiding in every winter is the spring.
It took three more seasons of my beloved tree looking pretty dead before we saw something that felt miraculous. Spring the following year after my husband declared the tree a goner, there were more blooms, though they were still sparce, and they didn’t all look the same. Something different about the center ones. Then, that summer, I walked out to the tree one day to find cherries—real, edible, slightly sweet and sour cherries. What could we do but eat some and leave the others for the birds?
The tree wasn’t dead afterall; it had become something new. The outer branches remain a decorative Weeping Cherry. The center, where it was dead for a time, has become a fruiting cherry. Some people like to assure me this is scientific—it was obviously a hybrid and the lightening strike brought out some latent DNA. Could be, and don’t get me wrong—I’m a firm believer in the efficacy of science. But I’m a poet in the core of my soul, so I nod at those people, and then continue to believe that this tree had to go through a little hell, and once it did, it was able to live again, transformed. Gorgeous and useful.
More than once or even twice, I’ve been struck by some fierce and out of the blue lightening, though I’ve likened these moments to “falling off the cliff” times. Moments when I’m walking along through my life, with a sense of control over the day, and suddenly I take a step into something unexpected—some death or diagnosis—and I’m unmistakably over a cliff, descended into a kind of hell I didn’t see coming.
Rabbi Steve Leder says, “If you have to go through hell, don’t come out empty handed.” The lessons, he says, are not and never were worth the pain. And they are also not worth-less.
Gregory Boyle tells a story of two brothers, Rickie and Adam, he hired for Homeboy Industries shortly after their brother was killed. In the merchandising division, they worked closely with enemies—even those who had once been part of the gang that certainly killed their brother.
When he was invited to a speaking gig in San Francisco, Father Boyle asked the brothers to join him, thinking a change of scenery would do them good. The brothers were eager—until they realized they were going to be flying, not driving. Neither had ever been on a plane. Boyle, meeting them where they were, decided rather than calming them, he’d tease them, and so the tone was set.
Takeoff proved to undo them a bit—big sighs, lots of prayers and clutching of the seats and each other. Then they reached flying altitude, were given some peanuts and soda, and Boyle watched as they gazed out the window, their terror melt into awe and peace. Ricky patted Adam’s chest, as, Boyle writes, “they both looked out above their own clouds, and whispered, ‘I love doing this with you brother.’ Life, after unspeakable loss, becoming poetry again. In [it] together, two brothers, locked arms, delighted in the view.”
This is the cosmic dance, one that is always there, that we’re invited into, that Thomas Merton wrote of: “We are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the general dance.” It’s there when we join together at a table with friends. When we sit in a yard around a campfire laughing together even while we’re missing someone who’s not at that fire with us. When our teenagers decide to try new sports and don’t give up. When we witness a new baby born and a new sunrise. And when we see trees and the earth and people heal into something whole and new.
Father Boyles writes, “Yes, yes, yes. God so loved the world that he thought we’d find the poetry in it. Music. Nothing playing.”
There’s just one week left to access this free primer to ease gently and safely into some habits for mobility and a calmer nervous system. I hope you’ll take advantage if you haven’t already, and share with your friends. Don’t be nervous—it’s made for seniors, beginners, folks with mobility issues, anyone ready to start back to some regular movement, and people who sit a ton and need to release some stress. If that’s you, here you go: Free Primer For Mobility and Mental Calm
Next week, I’ll tell paid subscribers more about a little 30 day creativity experiment and will share a new yoga practice with you as well. May you be deeply attentive in this week ahead to all the poetry in the world around you.
What a great Miracle Story about your Cherry Tree! And I loved this line: Rabbi Steve Leder says, “If you have to go through hell, don’t come out empty handed.” Thank you!