When Life Gives You Lemons, Find An Umbrella Tree.

Umbrella trees (although apparently what I’ve always called “umbrella trees” are in fact “Ulmus glabra Camperdownii” trees, or Camperdown Elms, though in all honesty they look far more like umbrellas than the plant actually named “Umbrella tree,” which, in my opinion, in no way actually resembles an umbrella) have always felt sacred to me.

I didn’t know why until just yesterday.

I’ve passed the above-pictured camperdown elm (which I will now use instead of “umbrella tree,” not because it’s the correct term, but because I picture the words “camp-her-down” in the name, as though the tree has been directed to pitch a tent around me, protecting me, keeping me safe. As though each little bough is a little guard with a little shield saying, “we’ve got you. You are held.”) in my neighborhood day after day as I take my dog, Nettles, for a walk. It covers the entirety of the sidewalk, and everytime I pass within, I can feel my body–not my lungs, but my skin–breathe a sigh of relief.

I feel so good under here, I would think, pausing to soak up the richness of the feeling I couldn’t put a name to yet. I was like a child who can only communicate “that feels good” or “that feels bad,” when in reality, if she had the language, she would mean, “I feel safe” or “That hurts.”

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the difference between safety and danger–mostly because I’ve been experiencing the two in stark contrast on the reg; not physically, but emotionally. I’ve been delving into my past (or rather, my past has been indelicately shoving itself into my present), being forced to excavate past traumas to discover why it is I feel so insecure when faced with unconditional love, or why I can feel so small at a loved one’s passing comment.

It wasn’t until recently, when I had been exposed to an emotionally unsafe environment, that I used my dog’s walk as an excuse to escape. As usual, I crossed beneath the tree and felt the encompassing presence of love. Not as usual, my skin breathed the word for the feeling I hadn’t been able to name: Sheltered.

This tree was sacred because it offered shelter. For nothing in exchange other than my presence, other than for me to simply walk beneath its leaves and sigh and be loved and walk on. It cradled me, held me within its curving limbs, said, “Here, you are safe. You may take as long as you need.”

I don’t often take long, but there’s a part of me that longs to sit under that tree for hours, my back to the cement blocks stacked at its roots, soles of my feet flat on the sidewalk. I want to sit there for as long as I want, and have strangers pass me by without asking why I was there, and to hold a book in the crooks of my elbows and read at my leisure, and mostly to feel the wind on my arms and hear the wind in the leaves and smell the fresh earth and the cardamom-filled fall dinner dishes cooking in one of the houses down the street and feel undisturbed and connected and whole. I want peace.

When you spend so much of your time dissecting what hasn’t brought you peace–living through the unfairness of it all, acknowledging what still hurts so much is only because of all the pain that didn’t get noticed back then–what you’re really doing is living in a state of constant awareness of potential threat. Your senses become heightened, your mind on alert. You start looking for danger in every syllable and sidelong glance. Was that laugh a chuckle or a sneer? Was that a passive-aggressive judgment masked as a joke, or a harmless, topical witticism? Does their silence indicate criticism, or are they merely giving you space to feel heard? How the hell are you supposed to tell the difference?

The worst part is when you bare a bit too much of yourself to someone with whom you’re trying to build trust, and the gamble doesn’t pay off. You lean into vulnerability, and they step back and let you fall.

The moment I shared too much of myself (and we can often tell when we’ve shared too much before the other person even says a word), my brain literally sirened, “RETREAT! RETREAT! THIS IS NOT A SAFE SPACE…………………..…… too late.”

The damage was done. So I went on a walk, hoping against hope that I would be free of this sinking feeling I had just royally f*cked everything up.

In return, I was given no less than three miracles.

My first miracle happened when I walked under that tree and something in its countenance said, “Here. Take this. It’s just for you.”

Shelter. Safety. Protection. When we’re hurting, lost, or feeling small… it’s all we want.

And with that first miracle, I was able to keep going.

I frequently have conversations with my younger self when I’m in pain. These days, my pain is most commonly linked to the past, to a time when I was small, when everything the adults said or did, I took to be true or necessary. Even if a part of my little body knew that what they said was wrong, or off, or a part was missing… who was I to question it? How did I question it? I certainly didn’t have the words. So I learned to deal with the world however they saw fit to paint it. Even if it was wrong. Even if it hurt.

The second miracle happened when, a few minutes later, I opened my mouth to talk to my little self within, and somehow out came a message that I’m certain was of a higher power than me:

“Dear little self,” I said. “Their words can’t hurt you anymore because now we know they’re not true.”

No matter what you fear, what they’ve judged, how they see you, what they think… it doesn’t matter. They’re not the sole painters of your world anymore. You get to decide if the sky is blue or not. You get to paint the grass green, or fuschia, or aquamarine, or whatever the heck color you want because it makes you happy and lighter and free and because you can feel in your bones that that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Their words, no matter how harmful, can’t hurt you anymore because you are strong enough, brave enough, and smart enough to discern the truth for yourself, and rewrite any story from your past that says you are anything less than capable, fierce, and immeasurably worthy of love and belonging.

The third and final miracle came when I was looping back through a trail behind my neighborhood, and I heard footsteps from behind.

A man and his two dogs had been following me for a while, perhaps 20 yards behind me, but following the same streets as I turned first left and then crossed the street and then right towards some trails that ran adjacent to the local elementary school. I was aware of him for no other reason than that he was a man, and he happened to be going in the same direction as me.

I jogged a bit to stay ahead of him, equalizing the distance I lost when Nettles stopped to take sniffs of the foliage.

In a moment, we had entered the trails, and I chose a route that was a little less trodden, aiming to lose the man with the dogs, which I did.

Still, my chest was heavy. I looked around at the ash and evergreen trees, craving sustenance or relief, and prayed, Help.

A couple minutes later, I heard footsteps grinding against the stones on the path behind me. I glanced through the tops of the blackberry bushes, and thought I saw yet another man.

As women do, I grew immediately wary. He wouldn’t go after me with my dog on me, right?

Leaves fell and rustled to my right. A twig broke on my left.

What do I do if I’m surrounded? I thought.

Then Nettles stopped to peer behind us, and I found I had been mistaken; the person following us was actually a woman. Her gate wasn’t slow, but it was clear she was on a casual walk. You could feel her enjoying the warm evening air, choosing a walk through the woods over paved roads and house-lined streets.

I physically relaxed, though emotionally, I remained tense.

A moment later, a woman came jogging towards us from ahead. Nettles and I pulled off to the side. I had been walking with my eyes downcast much of the time–if you pass a neighbor, don’t linger your glance for too long, don’t stop to make smalltalk, what if they have pressing business? smile politely, but just for a moment–but as the woman approached, I carefully and deliberately made direct eye contact, and smiled so she knew I saw her. I wasn’t just there with her. I stood as her witness. Taking her in.

She looked back at me, and smiled so big and so bright, I can still picture it clearly in my head, like the imprint of the sun on the backs of my eyelids. A moment of pure, brilliant connection.

“I see you, too,” said her smile. “And who you are is beautiful.”

And just like that. A woman before me and a woman behind. Sheltered. Safe. Seen.

Miracle #3.

That night, I came back to the house and felt revived. Perhaps I didn’t have a camp-her-down tree in my living room, protection at my beck and call. Perhaps I risked a bit too much earlier that night, and I got burned for it.

Didn’t matter. This wasn’t the end. I got to choose what I shared from then on out. I got to choose what I disagreed with (out loud, anyway), how much energy I was willing to expend, and how much energy I was willing to take in.

I got to write the narrative of my own story, and dammit, no one else was taking that away from me.

I’d been given no less than three miracles last night. I’d been given a tree that offered me solace, a local wood that answered prayers with guardian women, and a little voice inside that offered me wisdom in moments when I needed it most.

And you know what? At least for now… that’s more than enough.

And so, too, am I.