THE PACE OF THE FOREST - Jasmin Pittman

(Photo by Artur Górecki)

In the middle of a once in 1,000-year hurricane, I stood on my front porch to witness the torrent of wind and rain. 

The night before, fear crept up from my belly and spread into my lungs, constricting my breath like a corset. 

Knowing there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to stop any of the trees around the house from toppling over, at some point in the darkness, I surrendered. 

I surrendered to the truth that I was not in control. That Mother Nature can be both awe-full and awful. And that perhaps, I could learn something from her as she raged.

One of the giant eastern hemlocks near my house towers over the other trees in its immediate vicinity. Sometimes, I’m annoyed that it dominates the landscape around it, partially blocking my mountain views. On other occasions, I recognize the enormity of my privilege, in the small part of me that begs for the landscape to spread her wares simply for my pleasure.

Standing on my porch the morning of the hurricane, I kept my eyes trained on that hemlock as it bent, unbelievably, in the thrashing wind. Its limbs swirled, needles dancing against the backdrop of a gray sky. Loose bark flew free, in an act of shedding the unnecessary. 

If that kind of grace and flexibility is available with age, I want to mimic this elder. 

And, in truth, there are times when I also want to mimic the storm. 

Not in its destruction, but in its fierceness. I don’t know if destruction and ferocity can be decoupled, but I do know there are some things that actively need dismantling with a force that could not be described as gentle.

I can remember, when I suspected that an adult might have harmed one of my children, the rage bloomed out of me like a dark, billowing cloud, and I could have struck lightning and thunder from my hands.

Or, when I heard a world leader openly denigrating my neighbors, with skin as brown as my own, I felt Kali’s tongue, sharp as a knife and ready to cut down empires. 

The rage comes first, then the tears.

I am still in mourning for my region. 

“My” hemlock didn’t fall, but many, many others did. Now, trees all over western North Carolina lay uprooted, as though their skirts were yanked upward, exposing their vulnerabilities, their private places, the roots that once thrived in a nourishing network of connectedness. 

In his book, The Hidden Life of Trees, forester Peter Wohlleben describes an experience of discovering unlikely friendship in the forest. The gnarled, moss-covered stump of a 4-500 year old beech tree, which at first, he thought was dead, was in fact alive. Upon closer examination, he realized the neighboring trees had been nurturing the stump by sharing sugar through their intertwined roots. Why? “The reasons are the same as for human communities,” Wohlleben writes, “there are advantages to working together…Every tree is valuable to the community and worth keeping around for as long as possible.”

I find myself wanting to live at the pace of the forest. The family of woods reminds us of what we all wish we could grant one another: more time. More time with the ones we know are important to us, the ones integral to our thriving, the precious ones with whom we are intertwined at the roots. 

It’s a lesson I am continually learning, one that the storm brought into sharp relief. I want, and perhaps even need, more time with the ones whose sweet laughter blooms in my heart like a peony unfurling. The one who holds my body like a priceless work of art. The ones that will sit around my table, tasting all that I have to offer. The ones who heal me, and I them.

In the middle of a once in 1,000 year hurricane, I stood on my front porch to witness the torrent of wind and rain. 

And now, I stand to witness the beauty of interdependence and the work of rebuilding, sharing sweetness at the root. 

Jasmin Pittman is a writer, editor, and spiritual companion interested in the intersections of identity, hospitality, and belonging. Her work can be found in The Peace Table: A Storybook Bible, Bigger Than Bravery, Meeting at the Table, and elsewhere.