Changing Landscapes: Grief is a Gift, Suffering is Optional

Settling my feet back on the land that raised me has been quite an experience. Sometimes you don’t realize how intimately you’re connected to a place until you pay attention to your relationship with it. On one hand things are booming here. Real estate prices have gone through the roof—it’s a sellers market, people are moving here in droves, developers are seizing opportunities to build, and there’s more access to goods and services here than there has ever been. On the other, the landscape is changing.

In the past few months, I’ve watched tracts of the native pine forest be bulldozed. Seen lots cleared entirely of flora and fauna—scraped to the bone for building. And been shown photos of a destroyed 400 year old Silk Cotton tree which was cut down to install a left turn lane—I haven’t had the heart to drive down the road and see it for myself yet—in fact, i’ve been avoiding the area all together. Just writing this brings tears to my eyes. That tree knew my ancestors, maybe it was even planted by one.

Seeing green spaces devastated that have been previously untouched really triggers my heartache. Though I have been away, I have known this land for nearly 40 years, I have driven past these wild places since I was a child. Where will the hummingbirds go? What will they eat? Where will the white crown pigeons nest? What about the lizards? And the snakes? And the frogs? The depth of the sorrow I feel about the habitat destruction is overwhelming.

Each day I drive the same route I notice myself cringing at newly posted ‘for sale’ signs on virgin lots. I get upset when I see another tree cut along the roadside. It’s too much. This world is just too much to bear—”I’m too sensitive,” I conclude, pushing myself against wall and reinforcing a well worn imprint from childhood.

But, am I to witness this whole island get bulldozed? I don’t think I can handle it. Perhaps I need to go somewhere else for my own sanity? Where can find peace away from this destruction? Maybe somewhere I don’t know as well—somewhere I have less of a relationship with? Or I could stay home and hide. Hiding would surely shelter me from the reality of the changing landscape.

Aside from the impulse of running away, naturally the question of, “What can I do?!” arises. I’ve mentally played out the scenarios of becoming a bajillionaire and buying up all the land. Or more realistically just buying a few small pieces and leaving them be. Law enforcement has come to mind regarding the cutting of the silk cotton trees, as it’s actually illegal to cut them without a permit—but what is the recourse when it’s the government that cuts them? Or when people quietly cut them in their backyards without notice? I’ve considered seed saving, which is certainly not preventative but probably the most realistic yet tedious path.

The reality is, so little of what happens to this land or any other land is in my control. And so, as I continue to transverse it daily, I’m left with my feelings, my sensitivity, my triggers, my suffering, and my grief. Things which are uncomfortable to touch however on coming into closer proximity with them, I realize they could also potentially be my places of power—the kindling necessary to light the fire of my own transformation.

After the 400 year old Silk Cotton tree was destroyed, I posted photos in a local facebook group asking about why it happened, who did it, and if it was legal. I intentionally kept the post somewhat neutral because at this point in my personal development I realize when an event happens—or in this case, when a tree gets cut—everyone looks at it from a different point of view. Some people may share my vantage point, but not everyone will see the tree cutting as a tragedy. Also, it’s nearly impossible to get to the truth of why something occured if questioning about it is delivered wrapped in an assumption of motives (I’m still learning this one). Judging on the comments that flooded in, I was correct in my assessment. Many people were glad to say good riddance to the old tree. Many people had reasons they felt it should be cut and equally as many concurred the loss of the tree was heartbreaking.

As I suspected, the grief I feel about the tree, the land, the bulldozing, the loss of habitat is a response, or a message tailored to fit me—my psychology, my relationship to the land, and a reflection of the things I love and pay attention to. And, since I am from a lineage of tree and nature lovers that have lived on this land for over 300 years, perhaps my grief for the land is partly ancestral, too. It may not be the “right” response, nor is it unique or universally shared, but it is my response and something I am currently becoming intimate with and curious about.

Curiosity brings with it a lot of questions— 

What happens when grief about a situation that happened in the past is on a loop? What is it when the grief and sensitivity feels so big that it compels me to want to run away and hide? Why—like a child with a loose tooth who can’t stop wiggling it—do I keep telling stories in my head about the hummingbirds and frogs that further feed the grief and pain? Why do I continue to project my fear of the worst onto the future landscape as I drive by each day? Is it even true? Why all the suffering?! Is the suffering I’m enduring necessary? Or is it optional? If it’s optional, how am I benefiting from it?

When skin gets cut or scraped the initial impact or trauma is a significant moment—it may cause tears, or even anger, and pain. Afterwards, when the wound is open, it must be gently cared for to support healing. Beyond the initial healing phase however, it’s not helpful to pick at the scab nor to commit to feeling a certain way every time you look at the scar. I have come to understand that it’s important to be tender with my grief, but I do not need to re-play the tragic story I have written in my mind every time I drive past a cleared lot, it’s not particularly helpful. The suffering is optional, it is also probably a sign that I might benefit from exploring my grief further—and maybe even practice more tenderness towards it.

In conclusion, I see my grief about the changing landscape of my island home as a complexity I am still unraveling. The events that trigger it are clear but beneath it there’s a well of grief that I continue tapping into which appears historical. The grief, therefore, presents itself as an invitation to know myself better. From this vantage point, the death of the tree, the cleared lots, and all the destruction can be alchemized into gifts rather than offences.

And, like a good gift, my grief about the land is an opening for so many other themes and pathways to be explored. Themes that I do not have time to cover here today but are no less important than this initial exploration. Here are some of them: Grief as a teacher of love and indicator of values, the significance of being a witness to death and destruction (the death doula), acknowledging and giving gratitude for the life of someone or something, the lesson of holding things lightly as all things change, and the relevance of natural law—justice will always be served for harm done—there’s no “getting away” with anything here, and with that there is also no need for punishment.

Thank you for reading & hopefully more on this later…

Be well,

Ashley