Walking With Those Who Walked Before Us

It’s almost impossible to walk in old growth forest without thinking of ancestors. The trees are so big and slow, quiet and old. I don’t know much about my ancestors, those in my family who preceded me. So, I imagine. I try to feel into who they were, what they did, how they lived. And as I walk among these old trees, I wonder, maybe they can tell me; they were alive back then. Maybe the underground mycorrhizal network of their roots spoke to other trees, who spoke to other trees, and could bring me the messages back from across the continent, across time. The ancient ones telling stories of time when they were young, and of my ancestors who lived near them.

There are more than very big trees here, there are strange trees too. When I moved to Pacific Northwest many years ago, I was so intrigued and excited by the nurse logs of the rainforests. The tree that has fallen becomes the ground for others to grow- not after it decays and becomes soil, but right away. Seeds land in the moist and mossy crevices of its bark. They germinate and begin to grow. Huckleberry, Red Cedar, Douglas Fir, Sitka Spruce, Hemlock, Maple, Salal, Fern and more.  They make their way with determination, anchoring roots in the bark and audaciously stretching tender green sprouts toward the light. 

And over time some of this multitude die and some thrive. The roots of some crawl down the sides of the log, reaching into the forest floor. And over even more time, the tree that fell- the nurse log- begins to rot away. When it has finally been used up by the bugs and plants, crumbled or carried off, the roots of the generation who grew upon it have formed arches, empty spaces, telling us the shape of the nurse log. 

I was awe struck when I first saw them, trees with arches for roots! Some even looked like they could pick up their mossy skirts and walk away. These root, leg, arches can be very odd and gnarled buttresses and others quite graceful and symmetrical. The air and light and creatures can pass right through. There was one in a nature preserve I used to visit. The trail went right through. I would stop and stand under it for a while; feeling the magic of standing under a live vertical tree. The last time I went on this hike it was gone. Fallen maybe to nurse others. It had been a long time and I wasn’t sure of its location; I didn’t find it. 

As a leader with Wild Grief I encourage people to take their grief into the wild world; to be with the cycles of growth and decay, of life and death, so evident in wild places. Over time, when grief no longer swamps us every time it arises, we begin to notice that grief sometimes creates fertile ground for reflection. I think we too grow on those who have fallen. I think there have been gifts and traumas passed on to me from my ancestors, as naturally as the fallen nurse log shapes the next generations of trees. 

Our ancestors, the ones who have passed, do they feed our souls, support our growth, and create the fertile ground from which we grow? I long to turn to them in times of need, like I turn to these wise old trees. I try to imagine how my ancestors might advise me, hold me, comfort me. Clearly, the generations before me, nursed and shaped me.  My form, my stature, is reflective of who they were- both the grace and the gnarlyness.

-Karen Kirsch, Wild Grief Founder, Board Member, and Guide