Letters from the Catskills: The Survivor’s Tree
She came back this summer—my mother.
Returned to the Catskills like I had, more ready this time. Ready for the quiet mornings with coffee in hand. Ready for the slowness that doesn’t demand, only invites. Ready to hear herself again beneath the noise of the world. It was her second summer in these woods, and this time, her breath came easier.
We returned to Alder Lake, the place we had walked together the year before—though even then, it wasn’t guaranteed. Just a few days after completing cardiac rehab, she had laced up her shoes and stepped into the forest. Still uncertain. Still healing. But she walked. Slowly. Bravely. Reverently.
And at the far curve of the trail, rising from the granite like something holy, she saw it. A birch tree. Tall, white-skinned, alive. Somehow rooted and thriving on solid rock. She named it her survivor’s tree.
There was something in the way it stood—graceful, weathered, still reaching—that mirrored her. Against the odds. Rooted in hard things. Beautiful still.
Now, 365 days later, we walked the same trail again. This time, her steps were steady. Her body stronger. Her spirit a little more at ease in the silence. And when we reached the tree, she touched it gently. Not as a stranger this time, but as kin.
There was no need to speak. The land remembered. So did we.
A few days later, back at the house, she laced up her shoes again. This time, the morning was humming with goldfinches and cardinals. She set out on her second hike — this one along Birdsong Lane, dappled with sunlight through the canopy of the trees. She set out steady. Clear. At peace in the rhythm of her own body.
The strength she carried wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. We remembered together that healing isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes, it’s the quiet return. The second walk. The breath that doesn’t catch. The moment you realize you’re no longer surviving—but living.
Journal Prompt: On Quiet Strength
Think of a time when you returned to a place or practice with more strength than you had the time before.
What felt different in your body, your breath, your spirit?
What (or who) served as your survivor’s tree—something that reminded you you could keep going?
Where in your life are you quietly becoming stronger, even if no one else sees it yet?
Write freely. Let stillness guide your remembering.
