Sometimes I feel resistance inside me against going out into my garden.  Some part of me sometimes feels afraid to open my heart – even to trees and other plants.

When I recognize that dynamic, I make myself “get over it,” and just go.  It happened last night.

I stood outside my back door, in the near-dark, feeling the sometimes dread, resisting the open heartedness, and wondering Why, what does this mean?

Walking past the cherry tree, with which I’d had an interesting experience earlier this summer, I turned back to it and remembered how I’d leaned in and put my face against a cluster of leaves, and I did it again.

An impatient voice in my head asked how long we’d stand like this, and another voice tried to override my impatience by asking a question so we could get whatever answer was there, then go back inside; and the rest of me felt bad for my impatient chatter.

Then I sensed the cherry tree coach me to just be still, just be there, just experience.  And I was surprised because it sounded like the coaching I’d recently given a friend about sex!  No goal, no expectations, just be.

I was embarrassed and surprised (though I should hardly be surprised at myself by now) to witness my inner conflict, my inner immaturity, my distrust for what I already know and have experienced so profoundly so many times.  But then again – I’m multiple.  It should be no surprise.

And it’s good to be reminded of my multiplicity.

I took a deep breath, my face still against the cluster of cherry leaves – and was astounded at the powerful aroma coming off them and into my being as I breathed.  The odor wasn’t sweet or cherry-like, but something related to cherries, earthy, deep, and so powerful, I wasn’t sure I could breathe more that the two draughts I’d already inhaled, so I stopped.

And then I – didn’t quite hear – but somehow understood that now was the time for me to realize (again) the depth of the hurt, grief, and fear I’ve been holding for so long.  And with that, I felt the roots of it in me, and realized that the pool of pain was huge, and I asked, “How can I let this go?”

I don’t know how the tree answered, but my brain interpreted:  Into the Earth.

I’ve lain on the Earth to release grieving before, but this was nighttime, it was cooling, and dark, and I was certain that if I really felt all that was inside me, I’d be triggered to cry more loudly that I wanted to in this neighborhood.  So I thanked the tree for the renewed awareness and walked back inside to cry on my bed.

By the time I got ready to sleep, fed the cat, and all, the deep roots of pain had covered themselves over again, were not so accessible, but I thanked my Helpers for the knowledge of what still needs to be done and asked for help during sleep to prepare  me for release.

I can’t say that I felt anything else profound during the night or woke with any astounding ah-ha’s, but I still feel that something important happened.  Some part of me is aware again and open to new awareness and release, and I believe it’ll come in its time – and I’ll keep open to it.  Gently.