“Look at them trees. Notice how the trees do everything people do to get attention… except walk?”
Shug Avery
The Color Purple
I’m writing this from a sunlit porch with a rocking chair that creaks like it’s harboring secrets, and a lapful of warm morning light. The hills in front of me look painted by someone who once saw a Bob Ross special and decided to give it a try. Each ridge is crowded with trees—entire living universes disguised as background scenery.
🌿
I remember once, before a journey into woods like these, standing over an open suitcase and feeling my lungs lock tight. The simple act of folding shirts became an ordeal, each item a reminder that even small departures can summon storms. Somewhere between choosing socks and checking the map, panic showed up uninvited. (Is it ever invited?) The memory lingers now, stitched into mornings like this one, as if the trees themselves witnessed it and agreed to hold the story for me until I could bear it with stronger shoulders.
The Watchers
It’s not just me out here. A buzzard I have dubbed Carl, hovers in his usual post on a nearby tree, hunched like an old parishioner who knows everyone’s business. The trees sway in their silent language, not quite whispering, not quite shouting, but certainly saying something. Together, we form a strange congregation: bird, branch, breeze, and one calm(ish) human, all keeping each other company.
🌳
The Body Remembers
Panic, when it arrives, is inconvenient in its timing. It steals the air from your lungs and turns your own heartbeat into a hammering drum of dread. Mine has a talent for showing up when I’m already weighed down with tasks, as if it knows the exact moment my mind is busiest and decides to show up and make itself at home.
The body remembers these storms long after they pass. Even sitting here, I can feel the echo of that morning, the quiet tightening of fear. That hum in the chest that says: you’re leaving something undone, you’re about to mess everything up. The dog. The drive. The dread of stepping outside the fragile safety of routine.
Human vs Tree
The panic didn’t come from nowhere. Not long ago, I survived a near-fatal car crash—rain-slick road, spinout, tree. That day still sits in my bones. I don’t blame the tree; if anything, it caught me, absorbed the force, kept me alive. But the memory weighs on me and shows up in technicolor flashbacks with impeccably inconvenient timing.
So there I was, bag half packed, heart pounding, hands shaking, and completely overtaken by panic. I couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t do anything except curl into myself and press my hands against my eyes in an attempt to make the visions and pain disappear.
I wanted to quit before I began. To stay home, safe, unmoving.
Small Spells for Survival
Did I quit? Nope. I did what any pajama-clad human full of anxiety and panic might do: I sat on the floor and cried. Gasping, snotty sobs full of terror and heartache. Body trembling, head pounding. Flashbacks flitting through my mind like half remembered dreams. The whole mess of it.
But I also remembered a few grounding tricks—the kind that feel almost like spells when panic wants to take over.
They aren’t perfect cures by any means, just charms that help to keep me tethered:
- Holding ice until the burn reminds me I’m still here.
- Naming colors around the room to draw me back to the present.
- Breathing on purpose, though the body often resists the very thing it needs most.
They aren’t miracles, but they’re something—and sometimes something is enough
And so I packed the last bag. I got in the car. And I made the trip.
What the Trees Whisper
The trees don’t seem to mind my mess. They stand anyway, roots deep, branches reaching, leaves trembling but rarely breaking. They keep their secrets, hold their stories, and yet offer shade without being asked. Watching them, I wonder if healing isn’t about erasing fear, but about learning to stand and sway anyway, even with storms raging in your chest.
They also gently remind us that:
- Growth is often invisible.
- Silence is not failure; it’s rest.
- Roots do more than anyone realizes.
- Leaning a little doesn’t mean you’re falling.
🌳Try it, if you’d like:
- Sit where you can see a tree.
- Imagine your thoughts as clouds or birds drifting past it.
- Don’t chase them. Don’t cage them. Just notice.
- Breathe. Maybe sip something warm.
That’s it. A nature meditation, disguised as ordinary seeing.
🌿
A Different Kind of Rest
Rest looks different now. Not the pseudo-rest of pajamas and comfort shows while my brain plays emotional Tetris in the background. Here, in nature with the trees, I can unpause. Let things bubble up. Practice being comfortable with being uncomfortable.
And when that fails, peppermint tea helps. It’s forgiving, even if you wander off mid-steep. A little honey (local, if you can) turns it into a cup that whispers: try again.
Carl Approves (Probably)
Carl, by the way, is still hanging out. Still there, presiding from his crooked pulpit. The trees are doing what they’ve always done; standing as sentinels to time and keeping the secrets I’ve entrusted to them. The porch creaks with familiar sounds as my chair moves back and forth. And maybe that’s the truest healing. Knowing that we can make room for both pain and peace if we accept that the good can come along with the bad.
✨ You are allowed to be a mess and still be making progress.
🌳 From The Stillroom (affiliate links)
- If the birds are circling in one spot, maybe don’t go for a hike in that direction. (Or do. I’m not your mom.) If you do, be sure to load up on high SPF sunblock and au natural mosquito + tick bug spray. (Okay, maybe I do sound like your mom.)
- Meditation doesn’t have to look like sitting perfectly still in linen pants. It can be barefoot porch vibes with bird songs and caffeine. It might even be The Vanilla Sky soundtrack in your headphones while the sun shines on your face. (Know that parts of this entry are fueled by Paul McCartney and Peter Gabriel.)
Organic Peppermint Tea, Eco-Conscious Tea Bags
How’s Your Day Honey (no direct affiliation)
This is one of my absolute favorite coffee cups of all time. It’s a mushroom! With a lid! Perfect for steeping tea.
The meadow didn’t solve everything, but it gave me space to breathe, and that’s more than enough for now. Hope you find your own pocket of peace this week.
Until next time—
xx,
Kit 🌼
