The Weight of it All

Early in the spring, the blossoms of an apple tree bring the beginning of a cycle, as they fill every inch of its' branches, creating a brilliant display against the blue skies and greening grasses.  The limbs reach up, seeming to open to the warming sun, and it's usually a welcomed reminder of beauty after the darkness of winter.

As summer rolls around, the trees pull strength from the sustenance provided by all that is given them during this season, to create the life that they will eventually provide to us when the time comes to harvest.

And as the time to harvest comes, you can see the progression that the tree has made from those first days of spring.  The fruit is abundant, and the weight of what it bears pulling its' limbs towards the ground. It's quite a different sight and evokes such a contrasting energy than that of spring.

In my own season of grief, I look upon these apple trees, realizing how closely they mimic my own feeling of overwhelm.  I feel the heaviness of it all, as every thing-that-needs-taken-care-of hangs on me, weighing me down, begging to actually BE taken care of, to be plucked off so that I, too, can rest in the cocoon of the impending winter, rebuilding the reserves that have been withered away by the process of production.

Nature provides these reminders that there are inherent cycles within us.  Cycles that we ignore in the hustle and bustle of the just-keep-going culture that we have created in our current society.  Every day we take on more and more while the season of rest continues to be pushed off yet another day. We think there will be time to care for ourselves tomorrow, or next week, or after whatever thing-must-be-done-now is finally done.

But we forget that there also is importance in the processes that we ignore and put off, and that they are most beneficial when they are done at the proper times of the cycle.  Mother Nature provides us with these cycles to look upon as guidance for our own lives. Like the waxing and waning of the moon, we fill and release; like the ebb and tide of the oceans, we go forth and we retreat.

And as with the trees, we grow, we provide, we take, and we discard.

The pruning of dead and overgrown branches is necessary throughout the life of a tree, and is a metaphor of the pruning we must do in our own lives. If we keep stretching ourselves out further, we lose support, become weighed down, and our branches break. We have this idea that growth must always continue, but we forget that growth happens closest to the source and when we are well cared for during the process.

Like the leaves that are shed during the fall season, we shed parts of ourselves that we have outgrown or have been used up.  This also brings wisdom in the natural process of death.  The tree releases its' leaves to the ground, much like we release our attachments. While the leaves themselves wilt and die, they also nourish the ground beneath them, which in turn continues to feed the source that provides a home to the roots.  We feed our own sources when we acknowledge and hold space for, and the true growth occurs when we are able to release and rest, gaining strength to begin the cycle again.

Everything is connected.  One process leads into another, which can not be walked through without the completion of the previous.  In order to be nourished, we must allow. In order to receive, we must open. In order to progress, we must release. And so goes the cycle.

We give, we take, and we release to make space to receive that which we will give again.

Give love, instead of hate. Fairness, compassion, and understanding instead of judgment.

Take less, and share with those around you, instead of taking so much that there isn't anything left for anyone else.

Release, instead of holding on.