Trees as tear cushions

The Woods as Witness

The Woods as Witness

I went to the woods today.

Yes—despite the ban, those of us lucky enough to have a patch of trees can still slip inside and spend time in their embrace.

The forest was quiet. Not “summer quiet,” filled with bees and lawnmowers and boats on the water—but a deep, resonant quiet. A quiet that hums underneath everything else. A soundscape of zero.

I needed that.

Because if I’m honest, I’m wary of possibility right now. I’m tired of transformation. Exhausted from putting on airs, pretending the things that hurt, don’t. Today, in the woods, I let myself get real.

Yesterday, the final strands of my red-hair experiment were clipped away. What’s left is white, very short, and not at all in keeping with the picture I carry of myself. Another shift in identity. Another small loss.

And August, for me, has always carried the soundtrack of grief. A mother. A brother. People committed to misunderstanding me. Each departure compounding the others, each loss brushing against old ones not yet tended. Death, and loss

, I’m realizing, doesn’t let you skip steps. It doesn’t hand you a “get out of jail free” card. You can’t move forward without circling back.

So I sat on a half-sawn log in the forest and looked out over the blow-downs—trees scattered like beached whales, their roots and underbellies exposed. Ugliness and beauty all tangled together: moss, ferns, decay, and the quiet uprising of new life.

Because here’s the surprise: I have never seen pine there. Old spruce, a few birch and hemlock, yes. But last fall, something new arrived—tiny long-needled pine sprouts, poking up bravely amidst the rot. Brought by a chipmunk with a pinecone? A bird carrying seeds? I have no idea. But now they are everywhere, valiantly making their way skyward. Some will make it. Some won’t.

Meanwhile, miles away, thousands of hectares of Nova Scotia forest are burning. I can’t fathom the devastation. I grieve for the creatures whose homes are destroyed, for the people whose livelihoods are lost, for the planet itself.

But here in my patch, the woods let me grieve. They stood sentinel. They didn’t tell me not to cry. They didn’t try to cheer me up. They held me in silence while I finally sat down with this long lineage of grief I’ve been avoiding.

It gave me the container to allow it to all just be.

And I think—at last—we may be starting a meaningful conversation.