A Guest Pocket with James Crews

"Beech Trees in Spring"

Welcome to Pocketful of Prose, a community for sharing stories. As always, there’s an audio of this pocket if that works better for your life, and links are bold. I will be taking a sojourn from publishing between December 16th and January 11th, to simmer, rest, write, and spend time with my family, but I will be here next week with a special end of the year pocket for you, and I will return on January 12th with a fully thawed pocket to share.

Today, I’m overjoyed to be sharing a guest pocket from the writer James Crews. I love James’ writing and the tender way he looks at the world, and I’m so honored that he chose to join us in this space. James’ latest book Unlocking the Heart, Writing for Mindfulness, Courage and Self-Compassion is such a lovely invitation to notice, to journal, to love each other, to love the world, and to love ourselves. If you delight in James’ work like I do, you can also subscribe to his Substack, Poetry is Life.

Without further ado, today’s pocket written by James Crews.

Beech Trees in Spring

I want to be like the maples,
letting go so easily of their leaves
in the slightest autumn breeze,
surrendering every piece of themselves
they no longer need, and embracing bareness
like a new suit they can simply step into.
But I’m more like the beech trees,
which cling to the husks of their leaves
long into spring, refusing to give up
even a scrap of who they once were
until the last possible minute.
Perhaps they need the reassurance,
or maybe they’re here to lend music 
to the silence of winter, leaves 
beaten thin as tissue paper rustling
a lonely chorus in the snow-covered woods—
until buds push up to the surface, 
and with no other choice, they say yes 
to the final scatter and release,
learning again, as if for the first time,
how loss leaves room for something new.

Photo Credit: Mary Anne Borge

The truth is, very few of us can be like the maples, letting go as easily as autumn leaves. We cling to what’s familiar and predictable, believing this will help us guide and control our lives. Yet there can be so much wisdom, and even joy, in “embracing bareness,” accepting the inevitable losses and transitions that come our way so that we may process them. I wrote this poem after taking a long, late winter walk through the woods, noticing the way all the beech trees still clung to their leaves, even in mid-April. Those leaves, shriveled and “beaten thin as tissue paper,” still held a quiet, transcendent beauty. For a while, they appear gold at the tips of the branches, lending a little brightness to the otherwise drab and colorless winter landscape. They also offer a “lonely chorus” to anyone who’s listening, their rustling often the only sound that accompanies me as I pass through the bare trees, not even a squirrel stirring in the snow. The morning after my walk, the image of those pale leaves, still attached to branches in spite of strong winds, ice storms, and the battering of sleet, came back to me over and over. I knew they must be trying to teach me something important.

I’ve often chided myself for staying in certain relationships or jobs for longer than I needed to, sensing the time to move on had come, but not yet wanting to upend my life and navigate the uncertain terrain that comes with change. Now, I wonder: what if the way forward in our lives seems clear only in retrospect, when we’ve already taken the right action, and we feel the thrill of finally growing toward a new path? What if we need to cling to certain people and things in order to learn our lessons most fully, to be ready for the next inevitable transition?

We know the wisdom of letting go, releasing past selves that no longer serve us. We often hold up such non-attachment as the enlightened ideal. But those beech trees seemed to preach the wisdom of holding on for as long as we need to, not trying to force our growth, or rush off in some new direction too soon. We don’t often make essential changes in our lives until the last possible minute, when there’s no longer any other choice. Such is the power of predictability and comfort. Yet none of us should feel the pressure to let go of anything or forgive anyone, before we are absolutely ready. I’ve heard from friends deep in grief about the cruelty of others who believe they should have moved on from sorrow by now, who think less of them for staying in the tangle of emotions and welcoming each one. As author and rest coach Octavia Raheem has written: “Joy is an act of rebellion. And so is allowing ourselves to feel our grief.” We can forgive ourselves for the human need to hold on for however long we need to, no matter how many seasons it takes for us to let go and move on.

Invitation for Writing & Meditation: Describe a time in your life when you held onto something or someone longer than it seemed you needed to, in retrospect. Do you find some teacher in the natural world for embracing what arises, and letting go when the time is right?

James and I are excited to continue this conversation in the comments with you. Thanks for being here!