When my dear friend passed away, I found myself waking at night gripped by a terrible fear: that she had vanished into nothingness. In those dark hours, grief felt like a terrible weight on my heart, pressing until I remembered to breathe. I would lie still, listening for the familiar shuffle of my dog’s paws in the hallway—that soft clicking of nails on hardwood that meant life was continuing its steady rhythm just beyond my door. Alive. Here. And then the teachings would return to me: the Buddha’s wisdom of dependent origination (Skt: pratityasamutpada). My friend could never truly be alone, for she was held eternally in the vast web of existence, just as I held her now in memory, just as the earth would hold her transformed body. Still, knowing this intellectually and feeling it viscerally were different things entirely.
My husband and I had planned this trip to Sequoia National Park months before her passing. When the time came, we went anyway, our bodies heavy with both gear and grief. The first night in our tent, I lay awake watching the stars through the mesh ceiling, the silhouettes of pine trees standing tall against the sky. Their towering presence seemed at first to magnify my anguish, their whispers echoing my own torment: where has she gone? Is she truly gone? But as the night deepened, so did my awareness. The boundary between “her” and “not her” began to soften. Her laugh surfaced in my memory—that signature giggle she would unleash after a perfectly timed witty jab—and suddenly she was there, vivid and alive in that moment between the trees.
By daylight, we wandered among the giant sequoias. Some stood unbroken after millennia; others lay toppled, their massive trunks now shelter for fungi and insects. Many bore scars—blackened bark from fires, jagged wounds from lightning strikes, hollows carved by time itself. A park sign explained with quiet wisdom: “Frequent natural fires shape this ecosystem. Fires have touched every mature sequoia many times. Thick insulating bark protects mature sequoias from all but the hottest flames.” These trees didn’t just endure adversity: they required it. Fire cleared the understory, allowing their seeds to reach mineral soil, creating openings for sunlight to nourish new growth. What looked like destruction was actually part of their ancient cycle of renewal.
When we reached the General Sherman Tree, I stood in silent awe before this elder that had taken root some 2,200 years ago, shortly after the Buddha walked the Earth. What stories might it tell? Of the Monache and other indigenous peoples who have known these groves as kin for millennia? Of settlers who came with measuring tapes, blind to the deeper magnitude of these trees? Of seasons and storms weathered across generations? I whispered my friend’s name toward its crown, trusting the wind to carry it upward. Later, at a quieter bend in the trail, I found a young sequoia and pressed my palms to its resilient bark, murmuring secrets to it: how much I missed her, how unfair it felt, how I hoped she was at peace. Like Tony Leung’s character in the movie In the Mood for Love (2000) confessing his sorrow to a tree’s hollow, I entrusted these ancient beings with my most tender feelings.
In the gift shop, still buzzing with tree-wonder, I opened The Story of Trees and read:
Trees and the kingdom of plants are fundamental to our existence and development as a human race. However, apart from being aware of their contribution to the very air we breathe, few people realize the important role trees played in the lives of our ancestors and continue to play in our lives today—present as the paper on which these words are printed; enjoyed with a coffee from the coffee bean; or keeping us comfortable as a key material of our homes and their content.
My finger traced a paragraph about the hidden sophistication of trees: how emerging research suggests they might exchange warnings and nourishment through underground connections we’re only beginning to understand. Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching on inter-being surfaced in my mind: To be is to inter-be. You are me, and I am you. We inter-are. Here was living proof: my existence inseparable from these trees, though I rarely noticed. The book in my hands, the oxygen in my lungs, the wooden counter bearing my weight, all connected to this silent community of beings.
That second night, my wakeful moments felt different. The grief remained, but now it was cradled by something larger—not just the trees’ quiet wisdom or the stars’ distant brilliance, but the Earth’s very rotation beneath me, steady as a heartbeat. My friend was gone in one form, yet forever present in others: in the rustle of leaves that sounded like her laughter, in the shared breath between all living things, in the enduring wisdom of these forests that had survived so much.
Now home, I find myself pausing more often when trees cross my path. The fig outside my window stretching to catch the morning breeze. My neighbor’s pepper tree dusting the sidewalk with tiny dried berries. The cedar atop the hill exhaling its zesty perfume. Each one a living lesson in resilience and connection. If a tree can hold two millennia of storms in its rings and still stand tall, might my own heart—rooted in this vast network of inter-being—learn to hold loss with the same grace?
Nina Müller is a Mindfulness Teacher who offers online mindfulness coaching sessions. If you would like to find out more, please visit The Mindful Practice to book a complimentary consultation.
References
Hobbs, Kevin and David West. 2020. The Story of Trees: And How They Changed the Way We Live. London: Laurence King Publishing.
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