Most of us have experienced dark times in our lives. The source may be the actions of others or a random turn of events. Our wounds may be self-inflicted. Regardless of the cause, the pain is real. What we do with the ashes of adversity shapes whether and how we move forward.

Looking back over the difficult times from the vantage of having gone through them, we can see that most of them were stepping stones to new awareness and understanding. However, while we’re in the throes of our challenges, it is often difficult to take our leave from the drama.

Perhaps, the leaving is tied to a relationship or a chapter of one’s history that was filled with significance. While this sort of leaving may certainly be accompanied by the anguish of what was and will no longer be, the free fall of letting go sets the stage for what is to come.

David Whyte reminds us that often the ashes of our vexing conundrums or old hurts point the way to the next chapter of liberating possibilities – arriving to begin again.

The Journey

Above the mountains the geese turn into the light again

painting their black silhouettes on an open sky.

Sometimes everything has to be inscribed across the heavens

so you can find the one line already written inside you.

Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that first, bright

and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart.

Sometimes with the bones of the black sticks left when the fire has gone out

someone has written something new in the ashes of your life.

You are not leaving. Even as the light fades quickly now, you are arriving.

Are you asking who you are meant to be and what you are meant to do in this chapter of your life? Recent observations of a tree may offer some help.

Two years ago, porcupines ravaged one of our locust trees, stripping bark and leaves from almost every branch. Based on the lack of life last year, I thought the tree was dead. This year, observing its lifeless branches as its neighbors leafed out, I concluded it would join our wood pile this fall…that is, until this past week, when the cream colored flowers appeared. While sparser than two years ago, the blooms are unmistakable signs of life.

In addition to how little I know about locust trees, three other lessons surfaced that may help you with the arrival of your own blooms of this season of your life.

Like the tree in question we humans carry within us unique gifts and truths. Locusts grow quickly, even horizontally in outreach to the sun. Their wood is durable and difficult to cut and split. It takes a long time to dry and burns quite hot. What are your special gifts?

The locust’s vitality reminds me of the genius of resilience. Able to withstand the porcupines’ assault the tree persevered for a new day. What persists in your life’s calling?

Each gift of vocation manifests in its due season. I knew that ash trees leaf out later than most others. I now know that locusts leaf out even later than ash trees. No amount of my worrying or coaxing could change their inherent timing.

Maybe these simple lessons from nature’s way can reassure us that our unique gifts will emerge in their due season. Patience, mindfulness and receptivity will also help.

Sometimes, when adversity threatens to overwhelm the spirit, focusing on a simple task can bring us back to center.

There is much to weigh us down in life, from personal challenges to the daily bombardment of media images and commentary. The devastation from recent wildfires and flooding is a case in point.

How do we bring ourselves back to center? One dramatic example occurred in the outpouring of assistance in the wake of Harvey. It was an inspiring glimpse of our better angels transcending the demons that normally divide us.

Most of us regain our footing through the routines of nurturing our families, caring for our animals, volunteering for causes we believe in, pursuing hobbies or practicing yoga. I have found another form of meditation.

We heat with wood, and I split most of it by hand, a little each day. One of the storms last winter brought down some trees in our forest. Before the black flies arrived in May I bucked up the trunks and limbs into stove length rounds. Last week I began retrieving them to split and stack on the woodpile. The tractor access stopped 45 yards short. This meant carrying the rounds and returning the same distance for the next load. Viewed from one lens, it was a highly inefficient process.

Earlier in life impatience would have led me to desist. Last week I slowed my pace and coordinated it with my breathing. I lifted only manageable loads. I used the many return trips to appreciate how much joy I felt walking among the trees. I have the time to do this now. The woods nourish me aesthetically, and they feed my provider persona.

Maybe the reset boils down to this: pay attention and be grateful for the abundance in the moment.