I’m walking to my meeting with her and the wind is blowing and the noise the trees make is enormous. The storm is overwhelming. I walk fast, head down, hair a mess. When I’m nearly at her building I stop and look back at the path I’ve taken.
On either side of the path is a tree. A solid evergreen stands to the left; its branches are solid and unmoving, leaves barely swaying. On the right is a birch tree; bowed, buffeted, branches bending perilously and close to snapping. It shakes in the wind. Beside the steadfast evergreen, it looks so weak.
I go to my meeting.
“How are you?”
I lie. I tell her I am fine.
“Tell me about your day.”
There’s nothing to tell. But I think of the trees and that image of the two of them, side by side, separated by the path. I tell her about them: about how one stood firm while the other wavered. I tell her I am the tree on the right. I am emotional and buffeted and close to breaking. I tell her I will not survive the storm I’m living through.
She nods, takes a sip of tea, considering. She does not look directly at me; her eyes are silvered.
“In a storm, which tree do you think is more likely to survive?” she asks.
I think of the way the silver birch swayed. I tell her the evergreen would, obviously.
“But the solid and sturdy evergreen tree that can’t bend might end up snapping. A bendy, flexible tree could move with the storm and survive.”
But the strong tree provides shelter, I tell her. People could stand beneath it when it rained and stay dry. People could climb in the branches during summer. Nobody wanted the silver birch; nobody chose the silver birch over the evergreen.
She is blind, but she sees more than I do. “Being affected by things around you is not a weakness. You can come alongside people when they’re sad and cry with them. You can understand people better because you’re moved by them. The silver birch might look delicate, but it’s still standing. And think about the roots of the tree: in evergreens, they’re close to the surface. You can see them coming up through the grass. You never see the roots of a silver birch – they go deeper than you think.
“You are stronger than you think.”
Maybe I’m like the silver birch.
And maybe that’s okay.
The Mind of Tanitha 