Summer Shedding

Lately, I've been noticing a certain type of tree is shedding its bark. Large pieces of curled wood lie all around these trees as if they are too hot to possibly keep so many layers on. The tree sheds its skin the way an animal sheds its fur, or the way we shed our winter layers at the first signs of spring warmth. When I pick up one of the fallen pieces of bark, I can feel the paper I write on. Suddenly the preciousness of trees and of our use of paper becomes more real. This post is not about saving trees, though I could certainly write one. I walked by one of these peeling trees in front of the train station on the way to run in the woods. As I began picking up my pace, I wondered if, like the animals and trees, I, too, should be shedding something in the summer months. Is that what we are all meant to be doing right now, shedding something?

I ran on with the question and wondered, if I could, what would I want to shed? There is so much I am grateful for right now in my life and I do not have much in the way of habits or glaring behaviors I want to be rid of. But, there is something that feels like it is weighing me down. There are some losses and a deep sadness around them that I cannot seem to shake. I am not one to push away grieving. I know better than to say that grieving has a time table it adheres to. But, I do wonder what would happen if in dealing with loss, I would at some point say, "I am going to lovingly shed this layer of loss and begin in a new skin." Could it be that simple? Can we drop from our beings those difficult places that feel as though they are lingering too long simply by deciding we want to? It certainly sounds exciting and liberating, but there has to be another piece or it would be all too simple and, possibly, superficial. Shedding anything, self-defeating habits, unhealthy relationships, destructive behaviors, limiting beliefs requires more than my brain saying I will change. My heart has to be on board, too.

If I imagine shedding the losses I have had, what lies before me is an empty, open road. It is quiet and I don't know where it goes. That not knowing produces some fear which, in some ways, makes holding on to the loss feel easier. The loss, at least, is familiar. I know what it is and what it does. Whenever we shed anything, we are exposing ourselves to something new. We are raw. Of course, it is not comfortable. Of course, there is fear. At some point though, we can decide to befriend the fear and go on the open road. There are other challenges to face on that road, but at least there are more possibilities. Staying with loss, an unhealthy behavior, or relationship, or habit keeps us comfortably stuck. When we are ready we can, with a trembling heart, let go. But, there remains the unsettled, imploring part that desperately wants to know what helps us to be ready? Two words emerge from this inner inquiry, words which were strangers in my childhood home. As is the nature of strangers, they take some warming up to. They are hope and faith.

A year ago, I launched into a search for an understanding of what enables us to hope. I read different takes on the subject from poets, artists, and spiritual teachers. I struggled to come to some meaning that resonated with me. What was strikingly clear is that to have faith and to hope is to let go of control. Hmmm...thanks anyway, I think I'll keep my loss, at least part of me wants to say. But, what if I was willing to be with the fear and try on some faith and hope? Wouldn't the potential of what could happen by letting go of the loss be worth the risk of not being in control?

When I accept what is, whether or not I want it that way, I am yielding to the flow and not colliding into things I cannot change. Brother David Steindl-Rast describes having hope as being "open to possibility." Yielding to and accepting what has gone on, I can soften to what is now before me. I can be in this new place, with this new skin I am now in. From here, there is possibility as long as I don't get swallowed in some fear that the hole that was left behind will not be filled. The way I know to do that is to hear the gentle words said by Thich Nhat Hanh. "Hello my fear, I know you are there. I will take good care of you." For me, taking care of my fear, means holding a space for it. Placing it softly in the palm of my hand and knowing it is a part of me, but not all of me. The rest of me is alive and laughs (a lot) and smiles and runs and is free. We can all do this. When we are mindful and willing to look and listen and stay, we can all remember hope and the "openness to possibility" and from there let go and be with what emerges next, fear and all. To do that is to have faith that ultimately we are coming from a whole, good, and loving place and we will be filled.

The next time I walk by the shedding tree, before the landscapers clean up the beautiful, fallen layers, I am going to pick a piece up and feel the texture of the bark in my hands and know it has been shed so the tree can be alive. We, too, can continue to shed what keeps us from being most alive and know that what we leave behind will be replaced as long as we have hope. Not hope in a better place to come, but hope that we will be open to the beauty of this life all around us and meet it with our own. In recognizing the beauty that is right here and in sharing what we have, we will be filled. I do have faith in that. Of course, like anything else that involves living more fully and in mindfulness, it takes practice. We can all be students. The alternative may be comfortable, but it holds us back from the expansiveness of this life. These trees I am seeing, they are tremendous. So are we.