“I am still fascinated with stories of survivors of all things, refugees, endangered species that reemerge, the ways that a burned and scorched forest yields seedlings.”
– Gerri Rayvn Stanfield, “Sing Us Back to Life”
Like Gerri, I too have survived intense and difficult times (and corresponding depression) and have friends who have endured the same. The metaphor of trees returning to the forest feels particularly apt.
As the ashes cool, the first seedlings appear. They’re tender and delicate, the first tentative steps back into the world. They need light, nourishment, and time most of all. They may be the seeds of something that has been around all along or something new split open by the fire. It doesn’t matter what they are, all that matters is the nurturing.
Some of those will take root and grow deeper supports, some are meant to live briefly and build the conditions for another to take root. Just as an experienced eye can look at a forest and see early and old growth, you can look into another’s eyes and see their still-trembling parts and majestic strengths.
“It would be years before I dealt with my depression and addictive patterns and even longer before I forgave myself. I would later learn to call that period a dark night of the soul, and honor it as an initiatory opening to a healing path that I would walk for the rest of my life.”
I believe one of the things we’ve lost as a culture is awareness of how long these journeys actually are. Medicine treats so much of this as a transient condition, something like a brief infection that will get better with the right pill. The hope is that one has left the original damage behind and created a new world.
In my experience it’s more like walking out of the devastation and starting to change your clothes. The smoke-filled layers come off one by one, then comes the careful cleaning of the traces that merged into your skin and all the way to the bone. Then you rebuild, layer by layer, from the inside out. The initial beliefs and actions that supported you give way to newer, more supple strengths. You find a new way of presenting yourself, a new flow and structure, a new recognition of others who have been through the fire.
And yet, the body never forgets. There’s still the scent of smoke in the back of the nose, the roughness of grief in the lungs, the remembered feel of cinders underfoot. The feelings are never truly forgotten as they were the genesis of your strength today.
Nor is the path straight. The road spirals back through the original forest, sometimes circling patterns that helped right after the fire, sometimes to return and recover something left behind. Sometimes it’s necessary to return, sift through the ashes, and plant something anew.
If you’ve walked this path, or love someone who has, please be kind. Please understand that the surface can be deceiving. It can be easy to see the glory of the new-grown forest and miss the ruin at the center. It can be easy to be dismayed when a whiff of smoke draws one back to the injury. But that too is a path of healing, as our resistance and awareness constantly present the next part that is ready to grow.
If you’re back in the forest, can you look to a friend and reach out a hand? If you’re outside, can you come in as far as comfortable and reach out yours? Simply put, we need each other.