Tree messages (thunder, lightning and owl too)

A bee finds their way to the center of a white and pink hibiscus flower.

What are the trees telling you these days? Have you had a moment to listen?

When I’ve had the too rare and so precious moments this summer to listen, I’ve spent them with water, trees, 10 foot tall salal, lightning and downpour and thunder, and a watchful owl.

They all asked me to pass this on: how about if we could all come back home. 

The thing is, I’m not sure exactly where or what home is.

Sometimes I think I know: for now, it’s this place, this particular building that I really love, and also the gardens nestled around it.

But the other true thing is, plenty of us have lived in houses or apartments or buildings of one kind or another that didn’t offer us home at all. And plenty of us have lived with humans that weren’t home either, not if we mean home as true shelter for all of who we are.

They were, instead, places and people we sometimes ran from, looking for home.

So then I think - maybe home is actually right here inside me. Inside my bodyheartmind, and if I just listen close enough, I can find my way back in, whenever I need. 

I think this is probably sort of true, or half true.

But the trees and lichen and mushroom sweethearts all keep saying - no. No. Sorry, but no.

Home is not just in our heart or in our mind or in a building (not really at all). 

Sitting at the base of a tree, rough skin against my cheek, they tell me that home is what we find between and with each other, if we’re lucky.

Lucky is a complicated word, just like ‘home’. If we crack the shell and look inside, we find a whole mess of stuff like privilege, sheer chance, magic, and who knows what the hell else. 

Every day, I count myself lucky to be creating home - not just with the humans and other-than-humans I share a house/building with. I get to create home with the beautiful humans who bring joy to my heart, who I get to laugh and cry and share meals and celebration with, labor alongside, and grieve with.

And I get to create home with the trees and land and beings that make up the places I move through and with. 

I wasn’t invited to this land where I co-create home, so I do my best to listen, ask for guidance, and offer gratitude - every morning and throughout the day. I know that having a safe and stable place to be, with choice about where and when I move about the world, and who I spend the bulk of my time with - are all marks of my enormous privilege. Far too many people don’t have any of these choices, or places to be - to be safe, to be held, to create home with other beloveds.

In large part because the trees told me to, I offer Forest Therapy, Grief Care, and even teaching, in hopes of path-building a way back home for us all. 

Listening to the forest and the waters, I am reminded that with care and intention, we can create the world as home together.

When we make the choice to slow down and listen, to each other and to our more-than-human teachers, we are making the radical choice to move away from a culture that teaches us to extract and exploit, to push and shove (ourselves and each other), and to do it all as fast as we can.

Listening to each other, really listening, can be tough to do. Sometimes it can be uncomfortable, painful, enraging, and heartbreaking. It can also be revolutionary and tender and joyful. It can be an act of homemaking. 

The wise ones of the forest (and the park, and the sad little under-watered tree down the street) are always waiting for us to listen. They offer simple guidance and poignant requests.

What I hear from them, mostly, is just a reminder to take care - of each other, and them, and ourselves. 

This is what I hear. What about you?

I’d love to know: when you stop and listen, to your own heart and to the world around you, what message do you hear?

What and how and where is home for you?

And I’d love to know: how can I, how can we, help you build the path there? I’m listening, and I know our more-than-human friends are too.