I often walk in nature, finding it to be one of the deepest parts of my spiritual practice. This practice is rooted in noticing what flows toward me, what stories are unfolding, and what lessons might be revealed. I find that the environment reliably holds and informs me. There is deep, active listening in the ways of the earth.
Yesterday, I intuitively chose a path near my home that led to a nature preserve recently affected by a wildfire. The fire had prompted evacuations, but fortunately, it was quickly contained, sparing homes and lives. I had avoided this area, fearing the sadness of seeing the delicate nature harmed.
The smell of charred brush, chaparral, and trees hit me first—dense, sooty, and thick. Given the losses we've endured and the state of the world, I wasn't sure I could face the sorrow. But my legs kept moving.
As I approached the area, curiosity replaced my sadness. What might a burned area teach me? What lessons could it reveal?
Predictably, there were charred black trees, the skeletons of shrubs, and stubs of plants. Blackened rocks and parched soil—lots of black. Then I noticed peculiar dots of color punctuating the landscape.
Amid the ashen terrain, dozens of golden tan tumbleweeds gleamed in the sunshine. Their circular branches were beautifully architectural, standing in stark contrast to the charred blackness. They became my teachers for the day.
Here were my ponderings:
Every rooted, sedentary plant had burned. But the tumbleweeds were unscathed. All it takes is the slightest breeze to set them in motion. Perhaps they arrived after the fire, blown by air currents, or maybe they survived the blaze like Roman candles. Ihave limited understanding of these life forms, so I would need to research more to know.
The difficult truth about this nature lesson is that tumbleweeds thrive in disturbed soil and are considered invasive. They are highly flammable. Yet, in this charred landscape, they stood as symbols of resilience and movement.
And so, I learned from the tumbleweeds that even in destruction, there is beauty, resilience, and a lesson to be found.
You could argue that tumbleweeds are dead, and they are. But the remarkable thing about tumbleweeds is that they release their seeds after they die. There are about ten species that become tumbleweeds, all with large nodules along the bottom stalk that make it easy for the base to snap. When the time is right, they snap from their base, start to tumble, and quickly die. Their death is necessary for the plant to gradually degrade and fall apart, allowing its seeds to escape during the tumbling.
My soul rested on this phrase: they release their seeds after they are dead. Unlike most of the plant kingdom, their magic, fruitfulness, and potency come after death.
Nature often overturns our expectations, like the fascinating blanket octopus or the sphinx moth. The tumbleweeds gave me a new vision for what it might mean to be in relationship with the deceased. We tend to think that the fruitfulness of the deceased is over, but what if it's not? What if the deceased are releasing many and various seeds now? What if this moment is their most fruitful? Who is to say that they are not still productive, at least in OUR lives?
This landscape revealed two plant paths, both very different. The rooted trees and shrubs burned and died, their fruitfulness tied to their last season of seed dispersal before the fire. But the tumbleweed showed another path—rootlessness, death, and then seed dispersal.