At 40, I realized—I am a tree.

The realization came powerfully during a journey. My body transformed—roots stretching from my seat, branches unfurling from my crown, my trunk strong and steady. My treeness carried neither ecstasy nor grief, passion nor pain—only perfect equanimity.

My mind kept searching for problems, for questions demanding answers. But none arose. That human desperation for knowing flickered at the edges of my roots and limbs, but it never touched me.

I was grounded. I was peace. There was no need for answers because everything just was, without effort. I kept hearing this line: "From now on, whatever is meant for me will walk right up to me."

That very day, a beloved and necessary teacher walked right up to me. For so long, I had searched—desperate for partnership, for love. And then, unexpectedly, it arrived. The evening of that journey, he came to my house. We talked for eight hours, made love until the morning, and then, with that same intensity and fervor, spent two months inseparable, tangled into each other. He is ten years my junior, inexperienced in many ways, and the most absolute beam of pure living light.

Our love felt like teenage love—unafraid, unguarded. No games, no wounds pulling the strings. Just radiant love propelled by the simple longing to bask in each other’s light. A tumble of mutual generosity, compassion, silliness, sweetness, desire. I felt safe. Seen. Held. We danced, hiked, cooked, kissed, laughed, and talked for hours, wrapped in our little world. It was a gift—an unguarded lesson in love. In our short time together, I processed an incredible amount of pain from my marriage, deeply defined my desires and boundaries in relationship, and experienced my calcified heart absolutely cracking open.

On another journey, I learn he is a starling—fluttering, restless, expansive, ever in motion. He was born to roam. I provide nurturance and shelter. He can spread my seeds, generating new life. We serve each other on a fundamental level but are not meant to be together for a lifetime. He could rest in my branches, but he could never root beside me.

And so, there was pain, too. I often felt our differences. In the vortex of my house, where we spent so much time cocooning in a little bubble of love, we were in perfect, endless harmony. But as soon as we entered the world, there was the pain of disconnect. In each other's communities, I felt the misalignment, of mismatched perspectives and direction. I felt his flittering, his longing gaze. Even when he stayed anchored with me, I could feel his desire to fly. It is innate to his being.

As always, I put him before myself. I tried to fly for him. But I am no starling. I am a tree. The hardest truth: I didn’t want to change him, but I needed something he could never be.

Last night, I let him go. I had done so earlier in the week on the heels of a glaring example of our disconnection, but that time it was tinged with anger. A week of drifting back to and around each other still returned me to the searing clarity that our romantic relationship no longer serves me. Every superficial fiber of my being wants that to be untrue. I want to keep going. I want to keep playing and loving. I want to keep being fed and held. But my inner knowing is abundantly clear that our romance has run its swift and powerful course.

Part of truly loving myself is trusting that knowing, even when it seems to wound me in the short term. That knowing has been waiting a lifetime to be heard. She has been there, sometimes whispering, sometimes yelling, but always available.

And in truth, I realized the love I am longing for is not from some man; it is not even from the most rooted, grounded man. It is not from any man. It is from myself. It is connecting with that voice and listening to her, believing her, cherishing her, following her. My starling reminded me how easy I am to love and now it is my work to give it to myself.

In parting, I wrote him a love letter about how he has healed me. I have written quite a few love letters to men over the years, and now, with this newfound clarity and purpose of falling in love with Beth, it is time I write one to myself, too.

Sweet Beth,

You are a tree.

You are steady and strong. You are nurturing and magical. People come to you for comfort, respite, play, shelter, anchoring. Something in you is ancient; it has been growing over centuries and lifetimes. It is connected to the earth, it is wise, it is a conduit for truth and grounding, it is loving in the most quiet, stable way.

What is meant for you will walk right up to you. There is no need to search, strive, or effort. You have everything you need and everything you need will continue to be provided to you without effort. Wait. Always wait.

Whenever you feel alone, reach down through your roots and feel how you are connected to every living thing below the surface, reach up and feel how you are also part of the sky. You are connected. You are alive.

You are worth loving. You can be slow. You don't need any answers, any proof, any permission or reasons. You don't need to earn anything. You can wait. You are safe.

Your steadiness is a gift to the world. Your breath gives breath to others. You are a place of repose and peace. You are whole, you are abundant, you are generous, you are powerful, you are love.

You are a tree.

All you have to do this lifetime is be a tree. Be. Wait. Love.

May you spend each day inspired by your own sturdiness as you expand quietly through time, ring by ring, year by year, out into this glorious world. I love you.

I love you,

Beth