the earth is a teacher if you observe it

the forest regrows slowly, and so do i

The Earth is a teacher, if you observe it.

At the beginning of winter, I found myself in the midst of incredible changes. Parts of myself were becoming undone and I thought to myself, “this must be death.” And it was indeed, at least a dying process of all that I thought I was.

I remember wrestling with this death. This unsettling feeling crept into my spine and I found myself pushing for control. I couldn’t write. I was racking my brain for inspiration, hoping that this muse of creativity could find me if I just worked harder.

I was trying to prove something to myself—to the world—that I was okay and everything was fine but I was so bitterly sad; overwhelmed in ways that I was scared to confront. I remember blaming myself, guilting myself over the exhaustion that found me emotionally.

So, I went for a walk.

The Earth is a teacher, if you sit and listen.

Within many African spiritual practices, the forest is a place where we bury our great ancestors. The forest becomes a portal, holding spirits of mighty warriors tangling with soil and fungi—it’s rooted in ancestral truth. I remember how heavy my body felt as I walked through my usual path, off the main trail and deep within the forest’s heart. I sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and exhaled.

I was waiting for something.

Clarity? Inspiration? Words?

Maybe a sense of purpose?

The Earth listened softly to my bellows of uncertainty and responded, “In this season, we are both dying.”

Much like myself, the forest was also changing.

The Earth is a truth-keeper, and it knows you very well.

I first discovered my little spot in the woods the previous summer and this was my first time experiencing the trees unravel. I wrote before that trees are master alchemists; when we hold genuine conversations with them and engage in reciprocity (like tending to the Earth), they bestow us with a level of grounding through storms. But my forest was bare. The cold air swam through its branches and that’s when I realized something special. If you observe the Earth, you find yourself.

The trees surrender themselves to the winter with grace. Unlike me who was trying to slow the process of falling apart, the trees leaned into their season of loss.

Imagine what a world it would be if trees held onto their leaves out of fear of a forever winter?

The forest had what I lacked: trust in the divine orchestration of things. In this season, it was okay to die. It was at that point, my heart opened itself to the possibility of spring. So, I rested.

The Earth mirrors back to you, will you see it?

I found myself waiting for Spring with a bucket filled of my expectations. Maybe it was a bit silly expecting nature’s timing to coincide with a human calendar, but I was determined. I set a deadline for my grief; I warned my slowness that around the Spring Equinox they should pack their bags and begone! But as April approached, I found myself in an interesting space. Growing but tired, ready but still moving slow.

The forest beckoned me once again, their rambunctious child who’s always searching for answers. It was spring but yet, the forest was still mostly bare.

It whispered, “It takes a while.”

Much like myself, I was still coming together.

After winter, the forest regrows slowly. The empty space between the canopies allows fresh light to be filtered through. The sun’s rays will agitate the branch, forcing new buds to push through the wood’s hard exterior. We all go through growing pains.

Yes, it’s Spring.

And much like the trees, I hope you’ll take your time.