Verse 8 of the Tao Te Ching instructs us that “the best way to live is to be like water”. But today I couldn’t be like water. Today I needed to be like a beech tree. I didn’t make it to my spot because I felt too edgy, too restless. I needed to be somewhere else. I needed to walk. I knew if I were to sit in silence any longer I would self-destruct. So, I forced myself to move – to fall into a rhythm, to escape the doldrums of my weekly cycle.

White Clay wasn’t far enough away, so I planned my escape carefully. I was going to Maryland – to Fair Hill. I needed to find solace in the old abandoned buildings scattered throughout. I needed to find hope on the narrow, winding trails. I needed to learn how to be like a beech.

And the more I walked and let my mind escape, the more I learned.

Be like a beech tree.

Grow tall and straight. You are beautiful and you have nothing to hide. Reach your hands to the sky. Stretch them high. You have so much left to achieve, so much more to learn, so much space left to grow.

Root yourself in the ground. You’re not going to be moved. Through every storm; every gust of wind, every strike of lightning – you are not going anywhere.

Receive help when it’s time to shed the old. Only when a beech tree sheds its old leaves, can it begin to open the new ones. Though sometimes, even the trees have trouble letting go. Beeches keep a tight grip on their leaves throughout winter and must let go of them when spring arrives. If they can’t shake them, they call out for the one that can.

A slight breeze through limp brown leaves sounds like the music of a rattle through the forest. Yet when the breeze is strong enough, it tugs at the leaves, pulling them off one by one – forcing the tree to let go.

Beeches are big, strong, beautiful things. But even they need help. I wonder if the rattle of these leaves is a signal for the wind to pull harder – if it’s the sound of a beech tree in distress.

I saw a beech that had lost all its former leaves. It was ready to bloom. The leaves were beginning to unfold from their winter hiding spot. They felt soft and fuzzy. Several minutes later I came across a younger beech that rattled with each gust of wind. This tree still had many brown leaves and seemed to have trouble letting them go. The wind would be its savior. I placed a hand on the smooth coldness of its gray bark, feeling the invisible connection that drew me here. In that moment I realized the importance of where I was. This was the place I needed to be – where I would learn how to be like a beech tree.

I saw the leaf I needed. It shook in the wind. I reached my hand out and it came off without any resistance.

            It was time to let go.

I felt the fragileness of the leaf in my palm. Afraid of crushing it, I held it gently cupped in both hands. I had a long walk ahead of me – almost an hour still to go. Keeping the leaf safe was difficult, and many times I wondered why I was so compelled to carry it with me. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to keep it as a reminder on my nightstand or if I was going to keep it until I got bored. But I had a feeling I knew why I was carrying it. I was learning how to be like a beech.

I kept it with me until I arrived at the creek. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve thought I was back in White Clay. I sat next it in silence and watched the water flow.

I sat in silence holding the leaf.

I realized that to be like a beech is not easy. It’s hard. Beech trees are not silent. When they need help, they cry out to the wind. They cry out for help getting rid of the baggage. The baggage of days gone by. They cry out to keep that baggage from inhibiting their future growth. That is what it’s like to be a beech tree. When I need help, I can’t be silent.

For the sound of silence is a terrible thing.

“’Fools’, said I, ‘you do not know. Silence like a cancer grows.”

It was time for me to be like a beech tree and cry out to the wind for help.

“Hear my words that I might teach you.”

It was time for me to be like a beech tree and receive the help that is there, awaiting the call.

“Take my arms that I might reach you.’”

It was time for me to be like a beech tree and, finally, let go.

I walked to the bridge that crossed the creek. I stood on the railing and looked down. It was time to let go. And so, I did. I opened my hands and let the small, tan leaf drift slowly to the water below. I watched as it floated under the bridge and down the creek. I watched as it turned into a speck. I watched until I could see it no longer. Then I silently vowed to be stop being silent.

It was time to let go.

The Tao Te Ching highlights the goodness of water. But today, I learned the strength of a beech tree.

This week, I want to tell you a story – one that is not about myself. Instead, it is about someone very different. It is about a connection between this quiet being and a quiet observer.

The carpet of green had become increasingly thicker since the last time I made my way down the hill. Skunk cabbage and tall white-flowered grasses were growing in dense patches along the creek and viridescent shrubs could be seen throughout the forest. I didn’t have time to come on Friday like I had planned, so I had to settle for a dreary Sunday afternoon.

But I swear the birds are always louder on the cold, cloudy days. As I sat upon the sycamore, I felt sure that I knew which story to tell. A story of the birds coming back, a story of becoming native to a place. I thought I knew the story – until I saw her.

I saw her head rise first. She turned her dark neck to the direction of the creek and stood up slowly, quietly. I watched as she shook her tail feathers, as if just waking up. At first, I questioned if she was a male or a female. But the more I watched, the more I felt as if she was female. At first, I thought she was one of the two geese I usually see here. But the more I watched, the more I wondered where her mate was.

She made her was down to the creek, stopping every once in a while to look around. She was missing someone. She was looking around, as if half-heartedly searching. In the distance, there was honking. But it wasn’t her mate. Before the geese could even be seen, it was evident that they were a pair. They were talking to themselves, unaware of her presence. Unaware of her wistfulness.

She knew they were strangers and so she ignored them. She continued down the sloped bank and slide into the cold water. She swam a small half circle and was out again before a minute elapsed. She stood at the water’s edge as if unsure of what to do or where to go.

So, she contented herself with laying down. Slowly, quietly. Her head was the last to fall, and it lay in front of her body. It was as if she did not want to sleep, but instead was listening. Waiting. She did not tuck her head into her wing for she had to stay awake in case she heard any news from her missing friend.

Yet she only heard the honking from the distant pair.

I watched her, and I felt her sadness. She still had hope left, but it was less than half alive. I felt her loneliness. I watched as two swallows swopped low, playfully chasing each other. I watched as the pair of mallard ducks swam lazily upstream, searching for food. What does a goose do when they have lost their partner?

In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer tells the story of the First Man, Nanabozho. She constructs an image of him talking with Anishinaabe Linnaeus, a Swedish botanist and zoologist. “Nanabozho nods enthusiastically, ‘Yes that is also our way: we say, ‘We are all related.’’ He explains there was a time when all beings spoke the same language and could understand one another…”

As I watched from across the bank, I understood her. In that moment, she wasn’t just a bird. She wasn’t just a goose. She was a living, feeling individual. In that moment, I knew how she felt, and I felt her heartbreak. Slowly, quietly I kept my eyes upon her. Allowing the connection to draw us together, like an invisible string. I wanted to cry for her. I never used to let myself cry. But here I was, crying for her. Just a few tears for her loss.

Because who else would mourn for her?

Who else would care?

Mostly, I wondered what she would do. I wondered what life was like for a female goose. For a goose that was never taught how to fly north. For a goose that lay there, vulnerable and alone.

The honking became louder as the pair unknowing made their way to her. Slowly, quietly, she lifted her head. Then she rose and waddled back to the tall grass where I first saw her. Again, she laid down, though this time she was tensed and actively listening. The pair clumsily waddled along the bank and continued to honk. They reminded me of a pair of rude and intrusive tourists.

The two made their way to the water and continued their journey by swimming. They came closer and closer to the lonely goose. She did not like their presence. Up she jumped. She stretched her neck and puffed out her chest. She looked bigger than she did only a moment ago. As the two came toward her bank, she ran at them. Now it was time for her to honk. She plopped herself into the water and waved her wings. Frightened and surprised, the pair of geese immediately took to the sky. They flew back the same way they came – honking more excitedly than before.

Slowly, quietly, the lonely goose swam another circle in the water. Slowly, quietly, she pruned the feathers near her wing. Slowly, quietly, she tucked her head and rested in the water.

I watched, and I smiled. She may have been alone, but she was not vulnerable. She may have been alone, but that did not mean she was debilitated. No, instead she seemed even stronger. I hope I see her next week. But if I don’t, I know she will be okay. She does not need my tears.

I thanked her for this reminder and I turned away, slowly and quietly walking back up the hill to my car.