Today I thought I’d share a story with you from my own life. It’s about the tree in my backyard. Or rather, the absence of that tree.

Nearly 10 years ago, my husband and I moved into our current home. One of the things I loved about the house when we bought it was the big, stately tree growing in the backyard. It reminded me of a tree from my childhood — the tree that was my “happy place”. I imagined raising kids in this house, and how they might play outside and enjoy that big tree, just like I did.

The tree cast shade in the summer, littered our backyard with brilliant orange and yellow leaves in the fall, and looked regal covered in snow in winter.

In the fall of 2018, we found out the tree had died and gone hollow. Branches could fall; worse, the tree could topple and cause major damage.

The tree had to come down.

Reluctantly, we hired arborists to remove it. For a while, the tree’s absence left an empty space on the property. When the snow fell in winter, it no longer glistened on the tree’s tall branches. It simply blanketed the ground in soft white.

Then, in the late spring, I bought a couple packages of wildflower seeds. I didn’t know if anything would grow in that space, since the area around the tree was gravelly and tough. But I sprinkled the seeds anyway.

And then I waited.

And waited.

At first it seemed like nothing was happening. Every day I inspected the grass for new seedlings. I started to doubt whether anything would — or could — grow there.

Then, as if overnight, it was like a Crayola box exploded in my garden.

By mid-summer my wildflower garden was a festival of colour: purple, pink, yellow, orange, white, blue, red. My favourite were the poppies, delicate but vibrant. The flowers attracted honeybees and bumblebees and butterflies and birds. Everytime I looked out into the garden, I felt a part of something — an aliveness.

***Picture: My cat, Iggy, enjoying a few of the cut flowers from the garden.***

This year, I hoped the wildflowers would return, as I’d let them go to seed in the fall. And for the most part, they have. The garden isn’t exactly the same, and it’s definitely weedier. But it’s there. Colorful and alive and growing.

The stories we write for ourselves change. In the past 10 years, a lot of things haven’t happened the way I expected them to. We didn’t have kids. Both of us wound up making dramatic shifts with our careers. I went through both the worst year of my life and the best year of my life, bringing highs and lows I never anticipated or exactly planned on. (And now we're in the middle of a global pandemic. Definitely didn't see that coming.)

I’ve let go of, and rewritten, a lot of stories about myself and what my life should or could or will look like. I’ve learned this work is an ongoing process. And I’ve learned that sometimes we have to let go of the old, and plant something new.

What about you? What stories are you pruning? And even more importantly, which ones are you planting?

Never forget how much your stories matter. And that, even through gravel and hard soil and empty spaces, something new can always grow.

The Tree And The Garden