What else is possible?

on looking back with compassion

So often when things feel constricted, or there are changes happening that we don't agree with but can't control, it can feel like doors are slamming shut all around.

When options feel limited, sometimes it’s the simplest questions that illuminate the path forward — and it’s not always the path we think of when we consider what’s next. Today, I invite you to allow for a new possibility, one that perhaps you’ve not yet considered.

What else is possible?

The following essay can be found in Woodland Manitou.

To walk into the forest is to walk in the space of possibility. As I walk, I look up and see the manifestations of another season reaching curled tendrils out into the world, inviting new growth and expansion. Looking horizontally offers a sense of existing in the right place, secure in my own space within the contrasts that define each breath. When I glance down, I feel deep into the earth and into the endless possibilities that lie under the surface, ready for the time when they are called to venture into being.

Walking through the dappled sunshine, I trail my hand over the bark of adolescent trees and the prickly remnants of last year's ferns, meandering toward somewhere else, undefined, yet magnetic in its pull. I don't quite know what brought me into this place where trees hold vigil and wildflowers pay homage to the peacekeepers, but I keep walking. Each step draws me further into the vastness that is found in each leaf, each blade of grass, each seed, each bit of soil. The air is cool here, with just a hint of moisture that invites a sense of ease and tranquility. Somehow I know it is important I am right here, right now. There is possibility here that can be unfolded and put on. I sense that I will not completely shed the old, but the new will enhance what already is and invite a fresh brightness when it is allowed to uncurl.

The forest is our teacher; our guide. It is ancient yet always new, wise and searching, strong but fragile. Through its evolution and growth we can see our own. The forest is a mirror of our past and a glimpse into our future. It is the present. It can show us the pain of the world, and it can provide a canvas for great beauty. The forest can show us healing, and it can teach us how to let joy rise from the depths of sorrow. It holds onto peace for us when we let it slip through our fingers, and when we can't see past our own searching. It forgives when we don't remember our own possibilities and when we tumble through life with our eyes closed, instead of open.

I keep walking, making sure that my presence does nothing but add to the texture of creation's beauty as I inhale fresh air and exhale back into the flow of the forest’s ancient rhythms. My mind is still foggy about what draws me onward, but the journey continues. A solitary leaf falls into my path, and as it settles onto the woodland floor I know that this path will continue.

Peace, unencumbered, walks here too, in the forest.

Would I write this essay now? Probably not. My writing style has shifted in the 15 years since I wrote it. But the base energy, the idea that peace walks with us—in the forest or wherever else we find ourselves—remains; the idea that practicing mindfulness helps us feel like a part of something bigger than ourselves remains; the idea that connecting with nature is as essential as breathing remains.

Here’s your prompt: When you look at your past selves and the things that past self created, what do you see? What would shift if you offered that past self some grace and a gentle acknowledgement of doing the best they could with the tools that they had at a the time? What old project (be it a piece of writing, an art creation, or something else) holds the base energy that feeds what you do today, even if what you’d create today would look entirely different? Write about what else is possible when you look back with compassion.