In many ways this was an uncomfortable weekend of healing. I should have known better when I found a blog post I wrote in July, 2019, how sometimes even reading about healing hurts.
As I wrote that line into my phone’s screen, the forest around me exploded in leaf-song, like one of my professors did years ago in a Black Studies class when I said “Sometimes when ‘you all’ (meaning the other students in the class who had different skin colors than I did) talk about white people, I feel ashamed of my ethnicity.”
Something erupted in this professor as he almost shouted, “Yes! The white girl gets it!” He didn’t mention that I was “white girl”, that is me, all these years later as I refer to myself as “white girl” in situations like this when I am in the minority and forget I am in the minority and am actually grateful to experience what it feels like to be in the minority.
The forest, like that long ago professor, has a mouth that erupts (sometimes quietly) too.
Humans cut through the veins of the forest’s body to make trails and she forgives us, even seems to be glad we are here. Why else would this writing bench be sitting here on this random day in October, after a rain, on this particular trail – the “unnamed” trail I sloshed through in order to forest bathe and have this rich a-ha moment.
The leaves sound like the ocean. Walking below them, I feel safer than I would if I was under water.
The leaves invited me to sing. They seemed to enjoy me as much as I enjoy them.
This writing bench I sat on, perfectly situated, was a stone invitation to be a part of the forest. I didn’t know until I stood up that my pants were soaked through from the earlier rain.
I was enjoying the sense of belonging more than the discomfort of the wetness of my pants. Belonging does that. It helps us to connect with what is good and right and sacred rather than our aches, pains and problems and in doing so, we are strengthened to face challenges with more strength and confidence because of our sense of belonging.
The wind sweeping through the leaves to make music had wiped the shame I felt earlier in the day clean. The literal ache in my chest evaporated. Long ago friends danced with me, leaves pointed the way. Unseen animals chuckled.
The first draft of this was written as I sat in High Point State Park, using my phone to write. The sense of belonging I felt within the forest was palpable from the soles of my water logged oldest pair of sneakers to the top of my scalp.
If you look at the words above you will see “invited” “seemed to enjoy me” #forgives” “glad we are here”. When I arrived at the “front door” of the trail, I felt lonely and detached from caring. Only steps into the woods I began to feel as if I belonged, as if I was at home, as if I was forgiven for anything I might have done wrong whether inadvertently or on purpose.
When I realized I didn’t bring writing materials, I remembered I had my phone and could use it to capture the moment word for word which is what you see above.
I was cared for, held close and honored.
Even as the only human among an infinite number of trees, I felt a deep sense of the comfort of belonging.
My hope is that in reading these words, you feel a deep sense of belonging, too.
You are welcome here.
Julie JordanScott is a Creative Life Coach, an award-winning storyteller, actor and poet whose photos and mixed media art graces the walls of collectors across the United States. Her writing has appeared on the New York Times Best Sellers List, the Amazon best sellers list and on American Greetings Holiday cards (and other greeting cards). She currently lives in a manse in Sussex, NJ, where she has recently finished her most recent book project, hugging trees daily and enjoys having random inspirational conversations with strangers.
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