Still Standing

I like trees.

That is not a dramatic confession, I know. No one is going to gasp and say, “Trees? Really? We had no idea.”

But I do like them.

I like their shapes.

I like their shade.

I like the sound wind makes when it moves through leaves.

I like the ones that look like they are reaching for heaven, and the ones that look like they have endured every bad idea the weather ever had.

Where I grew up, we had trees, but not the I-was-born-to-be-a-treehouse kind.

You know those trees.

The kind that seem to say, “Come on up. Bring snacks. Build a little platform. Maybe hang a lantern.”

Our trees were more the go-ahead-and-try-it-and-see-how-far-you-fall kind.

They had character.

They did not have helpful branches.

Still, trees have always made me think.

They make me think of roots.

Of putting down roots.

Of taking root.

Of being rooted.

Of persisting against the odds.

Of standing tall.

Of weathering storms.

When a tree goes down, you know something serious happened.

Maybe wind.

Maybe drought.

Maybe age.

Maybe disease.

Maybe the slow weakening no one noticed until the moment it could not hold on anymore.

When we lived in New Orleans, I noticed how many tree roots ran along the ground. Big roots. Visible roots. Roots that looked almost like they were holding the city in place by sheer stubbornness.

I wondered how those trees survived the storms.

Then I learned that some trees gain strength from intertwined root systems.

They do not stand alone as much as they appear to.

Under the surface, or sometimes right there where you can see it, they are connected.

That stayed with me.

Because we talk a lot about standing tall.

Standing strong.

Standing on our own.

And there is value in that.

But sometimes the reason something is still standing is because it is not standing alone.

When we lived through a terrible drought years ago, I thought so many trees were done for.

Seriously, they looked dead.

I would drive past them and think, gone, gone, gone.

Bare limbs.

Dry ground.

No sign of life.

It looked final.

Then the rain started to fall again.

And many of those trees came back.

Not all of them.

Some really were gone.

But many of the trees I had been sure were dead were not dead at all.

They had been conserving.

Waiting.

Holding on somewhere deep and hidden.

I remember seeing two trees side by side.

One made it.

One did not.

I wondered why.

I still wonder.

Was one weakened before the drought came?

Disease?

Damage?

Roots that did not go deep enough?

Roots that could not reach water?

Had one found connection while the other stood alone?

I do not know.

Trees do not explain themselves, which is rude of them but probably wise.

Still, life has a way of making me think about those trees.

The storms come.

The droughts come.

Sometimes even the fires come.

And afterward, some things are gone.

But some are still there.

Scarred, maybe.

Changed, certainly.

But still standing.

There have been times in my life when I have been surprised to still be standing.

Not because I am dramatic.

Well, maybe a little because I am dramatic.

I am a writer. We do have tendencies.

But because life can be a lot.

It can hit hard.

It can stretch us.

It can dry up the easy places and ask us to find deeper water.

It can make us wonder if we have enough roots.

Enough strength.

Enough connection.

Enough stubbornness.

Thankfully, I have had help.

I have had a good support system.

I have had people whose roots intertwined with mine in ways that helped me hold on.

I have had examples from trees and humans.

And I have learned, slowly and with some resistance, that needing support does not make a person weak.

It may be one of the ways we survive.

Maybe resilience is not always about standing alone with our branches bravely raised against the sky.

Maybe sometimes resilience is about knowing where our roots are.

Knowing who helps us stay steady.

Knowing when to rest, when to bend, when to wait for rain, and when to admit the drought has been harder than we wanted to say.

I still like trees.

I like them more now than I did when I only saw shade and branches.

Now I see endurance.

Connection.

Patience.

Stubborn hope.

And the quiet miracle of something that looked gone, gone, gone, but was not.

What about you?

Do you ever ponder the trees?

Or the mountains?

Or the ocean?

Or some other piece of the natural world that seems to know something you are still trying to learn?

Have you ever been surprised to find yourself still standing?

I write essays here, and I write novels everywhere else. Both are fueled by curiosity, humor, adventure, and a stubborn belief in roots, resilience, and still standing after the storm.

If you would like to explore the fiction side of my work, you can find my books here.

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