“If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.” (Hal Borland)
Sometimes we don’t see anything new. We simply become ready to see what has always been there.
Today I was again walking the path near Manzanita Lake. It is a path I have walked many times, but lately something seems different. I seem to be more aware of nature—or maybe more open to what nature brings up inside of me.
My last blog was about noticing what was beneath my feet. I became fascinated by the different patterns, colors, cracks, patches, and shapes in the asphalt. Somehow, those ordinary markings became a kind of life review. I saw beginnings, different paths, wounds, repairs, and the worn places that come from simply traveling through life.
Today I wasn’t looking down as much.
I was looking around.
And once again, what I saw outside of me seemed to awaken something inside of me.
The Tree That Was Reaching
One of the first trees that caught my attention was an oak. It wasn’t growing tall and straight in the way we might picture a “perfect” tree. It leaned forward, and some of its branches curved awkwardly downward and outward.
There was something about it that felt familiar.
I imagined that perhaps this tree had spent its life trying to find its place among the other trees and vegetation. Maybe it had leaned toward the sunlight because that was where it needed to go in order to survive. Maybe the other trees had already claimed the easiest path upward.
Its branches almost looked like arms—reaching down and reaching out.
For some reason, I saw those branches as asking:
Is there room for me here?
Can I come closer?
Will somebody reach back?
That tree made me think about the times in my own life when I have wanted to fit in, when I have reached toward another person or group hoping to belong, and when that reaching wasn’t always returned.
Most of us probably have some crooked branches.
We have reached for people who couldn’t reach back. We have tried to fit into places where we didn’t quite belong. We have bent ourselves in directions we never expected because we were looking for acceptance, love, friendship, safety, or simply a little more sunlight.
Yet there was something else I noticed.
The oak was still there.
It didn’t need to be perfectly straight to be a beautiful tree.
Maybe neither do we.
The Ponderosa Pines
Further down the path, I came across a group of ponderosa pines. They were magnificent—tall, straight, and seemingly perfect.
I jokingly thought that if I had brought my level with me, I could have checked just how straight they really were.
Standing together, they reminded me of people who appear to have everything together. Not a hair out of place. They say the right thing at the right time. They know when to tell the right joke and when to make the intelligent comment. They appear confident, successful, attractive, and comfortable with themselves.
There were several of these pines clustered together, and suddenly I imagined them as a clique of teenagers.
The cool kids.
Tall, beautiful, confident, standing together as if they didn’t need anyone else.
And there I was, walking by—the crooked oak.
For a moment, those trees brought back that familiar human feeling:
I’m not good enough to be part of their group.
It made me think about how easily we compare our insides to someone else’s outside.
We see the straight trunk.
We don’t see the damaged branch fifty feet above us.
We don’t know what storms that tree has survived, what insects have burrowed beneath its bark, or how hard its roots have had to work to find water.
People can be that way too.
We see the confidence, education, accomplishments, appearance, money, humor, relationships, or social ease. We don’t necessarily see the insecurity, loneliness, fear, grief, or wounds underneath.
Perhaps none of those ponderosa pines were as perfect as they looked from the trail.
Neither are we.
The Granite Rock
Then I passed close to a huge granite rock.
I stopped.
Unlike the trees, this rock didn’t seem to be reaching for anything. It didn’t appear to need anyone’s approval. It wasn’t trying to stand straighter or become more beautiful.
It was simply there.
Solid.
Its personality, if a rock can have a personality, seemed to be about strength, confidence, endurance, and permanence.
I wondered how long it had been sitting there.
How many winters had covered it with snow? How many storms had pounded against it? How many hot summers had heated its surface? How many generations of people had walked past it?
It had witnessed history without saying a word.
Its surface was weathered. It wasn’t necessarily beautiful in the conventional sense. It wasn’t smooth or perfect. Yet there was something about its enormous size and worn stone that I found deeply appealing.
Its weathering was part of its beauty.
That thought stayed with me.
As we get older, perhaps we can look at ourselves in the same way.
We become weathered.
Life leaves marks.
Loss leaves marks.
Love leaves marks.
Mistakes leave marks.
People leave marks.
Time certainly leaves marks.
But being weathered is not the same as being weakened.
Standing beside that rock made me think about the strength that still exists inside of me—the storms I have already survived, the losses I thought might overwhelm me, the disappointments I eventually moved through, and the times when I discovered that I was stronger than I thought.
Maybe resilience isn’t about coming through life untouched.
Maybe resilience is being able to say:
Look at everything that has touched me—and I’m still here.
The Family of Rocks
Near the end of my walk, another group of rocks caught my attention.
This time I saw a family.
One large rock seemed to rise above the smaller ones surrounding it. My mind immediately turned the larger rock into a father, with his children gathered around him.
There seemed to be something important happening.
Maybe the father was giving advice.
Maybe he was telling them something he had learned from his many years of being weathered by life.
Maybe the children were listening to a story they wouldn’t completely understand until they were older.
Then my interpretation changed.
Perhaps this wasn’t an earthly father at all.
The larger rock began to feel more like a spiritual presence—a guide watching over the smaller rocks below.
Perhaps it was God talking to His children.
And I wondered what He might be saying.
Maybe:
You don’t have to understand everything yet.
You don’t have to have everything figured out.
You will be bent sometimes.
You will feel left out sometimes.
You will be weathered.
You will experience storms.
But keep growing. Keep reaching. Keep standing.
I stood there for a while looking at those rocks.
Of course, they were just rocks.
The oak was just an oak.
The ponderosa pines were just trees.
The granite rock wasn’t actually trying to teach me anything.
And yet maybe that is one of the gifts of becoming more observant as we get older.
Nature doesn’t necessarily speak to us.
Sometimes it gives us enough quiet that we can finally hear ourselves.
What Was Different About the Path?
The interesting thing is that none of this was new.
Those trees were probably there the last time I walked this path.
The rocks were there.
The crooked branches were there.
The ponderosa pines were standing together.
The granite had already survived countless storms.
So what changed?
I did.
Maybe that’s why familiar places can suddenly reveal something we have never noticed before. We don’t necessarily see the world only as it is. We also see it through whatever we are carrying inside of us at that particular moment.
On my previous walk, I looked down and saw my life in the asphalt.
Today I looked up and saw parts of myself in the trees.
I saw the part of me that has reached for belonging.
I saw the part that compares itself to people who seem taller, straighter, and more put together.
I saw the part that has been weathered but remains strong.
And finally, I saw the part of me that still looks for guidance, meaning, family, connection, and something larger than myself.
I wonder what I will see the next time I walk this same path.
Maybe nothing.
Or perhaps something that has been there all along, waiting for me to become ready to notice it.
EXERCISE
The next time you walk somewhere familiar, try slowing down and noticing what attracts your attention before deciding what it means.
What tree, rock, crack, flower, shadow, or unusual shape seems to call you to stop?
If it had a personality, what would that personality be?
Does something in nature remind you of a part of yourself—your need to belong, your wounds, your strength, your family, your aging, your spirituality?
Where in your life have you had to bend in order to keep growing?
Who are the “tall, straight pines” you sometimes compare yourself to?
What has weathered you without destroying you?
And perhaps the most interesting question:
Has the world around you changed—or are you finally seeing something because something inside of you has changed?
Remember, don’t act your age!