The Wisdom of Broken Things

Some thoughts on making art, existing without fear, creative returns, and the eternal wisdom of broken things

The tree allows itself to flower and bear fruit only once a year; it takes breaks.

Sometimes, the tree goes dormant for months at a time. In the silence that follows is a knowing, a promise that its life is eternal, and it can always return whenever it is ready to bear fruit once more.

The tree does not have to prove itself.

Its limbs can grow up or down, halved or full. It knows that each season of its life is only that — a season — and that its winter, when it is without leaves, when nobody remarks upon its profound beauty or eats its delicious creations, it is still just as important. It still matters equally to the forest in which it quietly stands.

The tree knows it would not be able to produce such things had it not taken long periods of rest, time to recover, and sleep, and dream.

The tree dreaming does not see others of its kind and note their finer leaves, their quicker flowering, the efficiency of their seeding, or the height of their branches. The tree dreaming only stands, allowing itself to embody the truth upon which it was so beautifully born.

If chaos falls and the tree is cut or burned down to a mere stump, it might grow more slowly, and might need more time to heal, but grow it will. The broken tree will expand without question, without knowing, unconsciously allowing itself the freedom to start anew. For as long as the tree draws breath, there is still possibility, the chance to reach up and touch the heavens.

Trees are rooted in one another; their roots entangle, their seeds cross-pollinate. This one’s grandmother and that one’s cousin, they speak in hushed, excited whispers through highways of fibrous lined soil, exchanging stories from the day.

When the strong and mighty, the ones that grew in ideal conditions, notice the stump or charred flesh of the bodies of the fallen, they do not feel pity, rather, instead, they immediately send what nutrients they have, wrapping broken roots among their own, giving whatever they can until the fallen stand once more, rooted and strong. They do this, the giving, for they know that all trees deserve to live and all trees deserve to grow.

And when the fractured bodies become healed, when the stumps begin to bud, after years of slowly growing up through concrete or charred earth or frozen soil, the other trees welcome them without question. For all trees belong in the forest, and all trees grow in their own time, at their own pace.

Sometimes the world tells us that because we are small, because we have faced hardship, because water has flooded our soil, because fires have burned our land, because butchers have chopped us to bits, that somehow we will never be whole again.

The trees of the forest know otherwise. Let us learn from their wisdom. Let us see their tenacity, their spirit, their grit, and let us remember that we too belong, that we too are powerful, and that we too, the wise and broken beings, will stand tall once more, reaching up toward the mother sky, the faraway stars of our ancestors, the light of the universe that reaches out, forever calling us home.

If you enjoyed this piece, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support will aid a young Latinx writer striving to achieve his dream of promoting kindness and resilience through art. I’m so pleased you’re here and I am wishing you love and liberation, daily.