DEATH AND REBIRTH - Heather Morgan
A smattering of tree stumps rising out of the water three to twenty feet from shore suggest a story of ecological history, whether you were here for it or not. In Algonquin - the biggest provincial park in southern Ontario - where the boundaries between forested land and water are nuanced at best and often overlapping, changing water levels over time have left clear remnants of forest submerged at varying levels of the lakes we paddle through in our canoe.
Even still, there appear to be two distinct types of stumps. One is empty, rotting slowly from the inside and out by the continuous slap, slap, slap of the water pulling itself over and around it. This would be unremarkable except for the existence of a second category of water stumps - those teeming with new life. Some places there is only lichen, and in others only moss, yet in our travels through Canoe Lake that day we found dozens of examples, some stumps sporting small bushes or, in one case, even a small tree.
All of these tree stumps got me thinking about death and rebirth.
Why do some trees simply die and others become havens for new life? What is the difference? They were all in the same lake - all fed by the same minerals, nutrients, and sun - all privy to the same winds and seeds, and yet their outcomes are so different.
It's not clear to the naked eye why one might be more hospitable than another, or why the third might prove good enough for a whole new tree to take root. Often just meters apart, clearly they were all felled by similar conditions - some combination of a rise in water levels, a forest fire, insects, or strong winds.
Did these events happen at different intervals, despite their close proximity to one another? Were some trees healthier than others when disaster struck, leaving them more capable of sustaining new life? Did some have help from birds or animals who saw something in them and used them as nests or food deposits, bringing seeds from which new life could take root?
And how will the establishment of new life on some stumps and not others affect the long term trajectory of each? Is it always a good thing for a stump to experience rebirth? Or might it sometimes be negative instead?
I'm no ecologist. I spend my days coaching people through the complexities of personal, partnered, and parenting life realities, and spend a lot of life focused on issues around disabilities. So as we paddled lazily along the lake my mind wandered over other deaths and rebirths in life: those fortunate enough to have remarried well after a challenging divorce; those who have found faith after deconstructing thoroughly the toxic elements of the religious traditions they grew up with; those who have created a new career for themselves later in life; religious organizations that have risen from the ashes of a skeleton of people to become full of life and vitality again. Why do these stories only sometimes happen? What would make them more or less likely to succeed? What are the risks and what do we miss out on if there is no rebirth? And what are the risks and missed opportunities if there is?
That new life can come out of death is the story of a forest writ large, whether on land or in water, and our human experience of death and rebirth mirrors this reality. Perhaps there are hard and fast answers - techniques or rules that will guarantee rebirth - but the longer I observe what's around me the less likely I feel convinced by that assertion. I'm sure there are choices that can be made that affect our chances of rebirth, but I'm no longer convinced that failing to be reborn is a catastrophic ending, and it certainly is not an outcome we as individuals get to control.
That's because whether new life takes root or not, there is beauty to be found in both the dying and any potential new life that comes after. And looking around at these dead stumps, the state of regrowth or lack thereof doesn't automatically indicate the level of beauty or function or contribution we offer to ourselves or our community, nor does it serve as a predictor of what will come at some point in the future. It is simply a state that we are in - today, right now - that we can observe and embrace and accept, and from which we can continue to live out of as we lean into the truth of our being.
Heather Morgan is a queer, disabled, autistic woman (she/her) who has spent the last 18 years thinking about and working in areas related to trauma - infant loss, sexual abuse, faith shifts, medical trauma and disability - as well as family dynamics including partnering and parenting, especially through traumatic experiences. She is a life coach and writes at www.poweredbylove.ca. Heather also serves as an Elder at Vox Alliance Church in Barrie, ON, where she lives with her partner and two young adult offspring. She recently started working on her Master's of Divinity at Emmanuel College at the University of Toronto.
