On Growth
Last week, I had the chance to attend a silent retreat at a nature center set within a forest. It was my third silent retreat there, and it made me so happy to return to a place where the world was quiet. I could hear about 5 different birds chirping. The trees spent the day re-teaching me how to breathe. Hearing so much quiet made me slow down considerably, and, as I did so, I realized just how much I need to grieve. The last time I was there, I remember writing that the world had gone crazy over the novel coronavirus. None of us had any idea back then what that would mean, or what the next two years would cost us.
As we shared opening intentions for the day, one woman shared hers about letting go of difficulty. It struck a chord with me. I’m struggling with this year of “Ease 2022,” to be honest. I keep finding that my predilection for doing things the hard(er) way is deeply twined with my conceptions of morality. Am I still a good person if I choose an easier route? Do I believe that I truly deserve ease? Will I allow myself to experience ease, and what does that mean for my growth? These questions sat on my mind as I wandered amidst the trees.
The last two years have been rife with losses. I lost a home that I had built for myself when I moved cities. I lost a job that I had worked hard at. I lost a romantic relationship that I tried hard to keep. I lost my church. I lost the ability to travel worldwide, coming and going as I pleased internationally. Ties I had built in my community have eroded and rusted away. So many tiny, incalculable griefs compounded over time, often without the time to pause work, halt the pressures of daily life, or make space to process, grieve, and mourn. These losses sat with me; the trees consoled me.
Each of us still alive has paid some price over the past two years for survival, and, importantly, we are still here. As I sat by the creek, listening for the breath cadence of the trees, I felt reminded that nature is never in a hurry. And nature holds many lessons on the nature of growth. Changes to the landscape often happen over millennia, shaped by one pebble shifting at a time.
On the walk back from the forest to the lodge, I found myself anticipating my own stride. Faster, I told myself involuntarily. I kept pushing myself to walk slightly faster than I wanted to, simply out of long years of habit (slow walkers are a public menace in crowded cities). I noticed that when I found a walking pace that was comfortable to me, I would turn the speed up until I was slightly uncomfortable again.
Part of me does this because it is how I have come to understand growth. It aligns with what I was taught: growth is at the very edge of one’s comfort zone. And I have long considered growth an unquestioned good in my life. I found myself wondering: what would it look like to let myself accept the pauses as rest and not stagnation? What if a slowed pace encouraged growth and did not inhibit it? Trees expand outward one ring at a time. It’s possible I might too.
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