Even in Grief, Green Things Grow

Grief is not linear.
It doesn’t wear a watch.
It doesn’t know what month it is, what year or even if time has passed.

It arrives uninvited,
stays too long,
leaves without warning, then returns
when your hands are full.

It waits in the body, in the throat, the spine, the belly.

It’s not always visible,
but it is always present.
It’s not a story with an ending.
It is something we carry.

The forest does not grieve.
Not like we do.

But it understands loss.

It knows what to do
when a branch breaks off a tree or its crown is sheared by the wind.
Energy is rerouted.

Life does not pause, it is redirected.

The tree does not stop growing.
It thickens the bark around the break.
It reaches toward the sun, the light.

What’s lost becomes memory of the whole.

A single tree falls, the forest feels it, 
roots brace, systems strain. Together.

Loss in the forest becomes nourishment.
The dead become a place for growth.

Nurse logs lie soft and split, their bodies a place for seeds to sprout and grow roots.
They cradle life in their decay,
offering shelter, moisture, and quiet direction toward the light.

Some seeds only open after fire.
They’re designed that way,
sealed tight.
Until the heat of destruction cracks them
open.

It sounds violent,
but it’s not.
It’s precise.
It’s ancient.
It’s the forest’s way of saying:
this pain is not the end.

It is a beginning,
ash, soot, and all.

You, too, may have parts that only grow
after the break, after the burning.

The growing stretches us,
sometimes to the edge.
It makes you real.

The forest never rushes you.

It doesn’t say,
“You’re still sad?”
It says,
“Sit.”
“Breathe.”
“Listen.”

You can lean against a hemlock
and feel something older than language.

The stillness that says:

You don’t have to move yet.
You don’t have to fix this.
You don’t have to explain.

In that space,

in the care of the nurse log,
in the quiet after the fire,
in the filtered light shining through the canopy,

something begins again.

It is life.

Even in grief,
green things grow.

Photograph 1: New life grows alongside old, Sierra Mountains, CA

Photograph 2: Fresh spring growth, Arrowhead Recreation Area, Claremont, NH