Remarkable Thing Learned from Destructive Trees in My Yard
What their removal made me realize about my life, specifically, as I existed in the corporate world.
We used to have two redwood trees in our yard. Nestled along the back fence, they were a shield from the wind in spring and fall, and great for shade on sunny summer afternoons. They were Protectors.
Two years ago, they began to search, as all living things do, for ways to extend and enhance their lives. The rainy season did not live up to its name and these massive trees went underwatered. The roots slowly escaped their hidden underground sanctuary and rose to, and through, the lawn. They sucked water meant for other plants. One of the trees had disease, the other started to lean. They became a cancer for the yard.
We agonized over the decision to remove them. Ultimately, we knew that while they were a beautiful, functional, and cherished piece of the yard, leaving them in place meant increased risk for everything around them.
The emptiness they left behind was stark. A blank fence stared back at us when we gazed from the kitchen window. Months went by and nearly every day I would peak outside only to be coldly reminded of what was not there.
We were met with indecision when we moved forward to look for replacement trees. How could anything compare to those redwoods? What if they don’t turn out the same? Can we wait until they are mature?
Our hesitancy had consequences. We finally planted in October, and the new trees immediately went dormant. They remained, young, slender, and without leaves for months.
As the temperatures warmed up this spring, I trotted outside almost every morning, hoping to find new activity, any activity, on the fragile branches. Buds began to sprout. I touched them gently, encouraged their growth. Then, this past week, after a string of 80-degree days, those buds burst open with clusters of new leaves.
The trees appear happy. And I’ve realized how much of a correlation they’ve had to my life.
They, and my yard as a whole, are a living metaphor for the changes endured over the past two years. First, I realized my career at a Fortune 200 company was no longer protecting me, but rather killing me, suffocating my relationships, and had indeed become a cancer. The endless escalator… great work rewarded with more work, which crowded out time with my family, my kids, my friends, and myself. I started to explore these feelings in depth with this writing.
I agonized over the decision to leave. The work relationships, the culture, the drive, the security, the support, the golden handcuffs. All treasured, but not enough to keep the job from sucking the life out of me and those around me. The benefits could no longer justify what I was giving up to continue the breakneck pace and heavy workload.
I experienced the mourning, as I did with the trees, when I left the company. I stared into space wondering about the next thing to come, would it compare? What if it doesn’t turn out the same? Or worse… since I was focusing on a business of my own, could I wait a long time for it to mature?
Just as I encouraged the trees to grow, I had a support system around me encouraging my life-transforming shift. With their help, I kept the faith that growth would come if I nurtured it and remained patient.
The affirming signals were there all along. If I may be so boastful, I’ve done well to recognize them. The most compelling of which is this... The day I earned my first revenue at my own company was the same day the trees burst open their leaves. How’s that for an affirmation signal?
The trees appear happy. I know I am.
