Anger and Blessings

The tree of life is growing where the spirit never dies, and the bright light of salvation shines in dark and empty skies.

Bob Dyan

I stood beneath her roots, a place I have never been in all my years of loving powerful trees. As I looked toward the belly of her trunk, a drop of water landed on my forehead. Then another. This holy tree was blessing me. These drops would soon roll out to sea to be lifted to the clouds and rained down again. Continuing to bless the Earth. But first, they were blessing me.

We have struggled to camp as our backs age and our willingness for freezing midnight bathroom runs wanes. My husband found an organization like Air BNB but for camper trailers. What a concept. Rent someone else’s RV and go camping but with heat and showers. He researched dump stations; black water out first then gray water, I read about campsite culture; don’t knock on the neighbor’s door, keep your dog quiet.

After we attached what feels like a stranger’s entire small house to our pickup truck we headed for the Olympic Peninsula. I needed to see this live Tree of Life before it falls into the Pacific Ocean. As we drove my phone dinged with emails about work, things that made little sense to me in the moment and brought anger creeping up my spine, giving me a headache that pulsed in my temples. This is a sure sign for me that I’m not resting, not sleeping enough, and on the verge of burnout.

I replied to the emails, trying to embody the me that is kind with the knowledge that the creeping anger is a function of my state of being and not the content of any email.

Our cell service came in and out as we pulled into the parking lot closest to the beach where the Tree of Life straddles a gap in a cliff. We sat and watched the huge waves crash in and and silently slide out, we stood beneath the tree breathing in the smell of the wet dirt. We watched rain move in, and then we headed for our campsite and into the absolute dead zone of cell connectivity.

The river next to our camper whispered a gentle lullaby. The blessing of the mother tree held me as I finally really, really slept. When I woke the anger had lifted to the skies, washed out to sea, transformed into a blessing.

a prayer

Sacred Mother Earth, may we see the blessing in the rain as it falls, with the clouds as they form and the winds that lift it all away. May we remember that all earthly beings need rest. May we be held by holy old trees who know so much more than we ever will. So it is.

Published by Kari Kopnick

Pacific Northwest pluviophile, empty-nester with a soft spot for small dogs and a very patient husband.

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