10 years ago I was on the verge of 30, had been married just shy of 12 years, had a very young daughter, and didn't feel like I really had any direction for myself. Putting all of this into an image in my mind it was like my life was a tree, each leaf a piece of myself and what I was living. There were a few green leaves that I still strived to keep alive. They provided me shade and shelter. However, most of the tree consisted of dried out, brown leaves that barely hung on. They were superficial relationships, half hearted attempts at work, a longing to move, to live elsewhere, to experience something, anything, new. I knew the slightest breeze or shake of the ground could send them all tumbling. I stood under that tree. My soul felt as dead and lifeless as each browning leaf.
That summer, on a hot day in July, the wind blasted through and the ground rumbled hard. Trauma found me when our best friend was killed by a sniper in Afghanistan. In a matter of moments I began to process how to support my husband as he was called to escort Shaun home, how to proceed with Shaun's family as I was living in his house at the time, how to reel in the thoughts that this was the mirror of what could play out with Matt during any one of his many deployments, and how to grieve for my own loss of a friend who supported us so much and provided such joy and laughter in our lives.
Looking back now, I see that I was unable to digest all of this at once. Seeing that this one moment had shaken my tree almost completely bare, I stood in the pile of leaves now at my feet, rustling and crunching with my movement. I lit the proverbial match, dropped it onto ground and watched my metaphorical tree go up in flames. It happened faster than I expected. It burned hotter than I imagined it would. I watched as the things I hadn't nurtured or given enough to were consumed by the heat and left as ashes. I wondered what would remain when it was all done. My marriage? Friendships? My own sense of direction in life? All of those had suffered before I ever lit that match. Would any of them survive?
It took a good while for the pile of ashes to stop smoldering and for the ground to cool. Standing in the middle of the remains of that tree I was ankle deep in a pile of ashes next to a stump. It still stood, bare, black, but alive. Then I noticed a small green bud coming from a branch. It uncurled and became the brightest leaf I'd ever seen. I marveled at it and admired it. It gave me hope. Then after some time another bud, and another leaf. Small blades of grass grew up from the ground through the ashes, between my toes. I even allowed myself to laugh as they did. I hadn't really laughed in so long. I began to feel some peace again. I looked forward to the next bud and what leaf it would develop into. Occasionally a bud would never fully form. It would die and drop. I was OK with that. It wasn't something meant to be for the long haul.
So here I am, 10 years has passed. Some of what was left in that pile of ashes has bloomed again, and some never came back. It doesn't matter. The leaves on my tree now are strong, green, secure. My marriage, that first bud to grow back, is my focus. My daughter is still there, and a new bud in the form of our son came about unexpectedly. Our Goddaughter entered my life and brought with her so much joy and love. I found my calling, what I'm good at, and what I want to do. Some of those superficial relationships are gone forever, and a few of them came back stronger than I ever imagined. They are the friends and family that were meant to be in my life. They are the ones worth trying for.
I care more for my tree now. I prune it as necessary so it stays strong and healthy. I don't allow it to become full of ugly, unappreciated leaves that will dry up and drop away. I've learned how to know many, but truly love only a few. I've learned how to prioritize what my heart wants. I've learned that I don't ever again what to strike that match.
I needed that cleansing, that devastation, that rebuilding. I needed to start over to really see where I was and where I was going. I hate that it took such a loss to be the accelerant. Sometimes that's what life hands you. Trauma that cuts you down to the core and gives you that fresh start. I still miss our friend, and I will forever remember the pain of that time. However, I know that the way I came out the other side of it all has made me stronger and more purposeful. For that I am thankful.
