Root Down and Rise Up
By Liz Michalski | January 22, 2021 |
Like all your Writer Unboxed columnists this week, I’m writing this in advance of the inauguration, a time of stress and worry and hopefulness and joy. We don’t know what will happen. And not knowing, not having control, is terrifying. In these days, it’s hard to concentrate. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to write.
In yoga, there’s an expression: “Root to rise.” It means, essentially, to start from a solid foundation, but whenever I hear it I think of trees: Dark green pines forming a cathedral against a winter-white background, leafy oak branches framed against a summer-blue sky, slender birches standing like columns along a lake. And somewhere, deep below the earth, a tangle of roots holding fast.
Root to rise.
In times of turmoil, the outdoors has always been a sanctuary for me. And during this past year, I’ve watched as more people have joined me. There’s a comfort to be had from fresh air and sunshine, from wind and rain, even from cold and snow. The weather may be different from day to day, but the environment, the trees and the rocks and lakes and the sky, the bones of our world, change so slowly as to be almost constant to our eyes. That constancy is reassuring. It tells us subconsciously that no matter what is happening, tomorrow is another day. The sun will come up in the morning and go down in the night and the world will keep on spinning.
Root to rise.
So in days of darkness or despair, when the words will not come, get yourself outside, into the natural world. Hike a trail. Walk the beach. Set out a blanket in a park or your backyard. Look up at the trees. Notice the shade of green, the veins that run through each leaf, the crisp, sharp scent of the evergreen needles. Watch how the wind blows through them, how the boughs whisper and sigh together. Close your eyes and listen to the earth’s lullaby.
Root to rise.
Take a notebook with you, on those days when you cannot write. Use it to describe the texture of the bark beneath your fingers — rough, hard, dry for the maple. Smooth for the birch. Sticky for the spruce. Capture how the long strands of weeping cherry dance in the wind, the way its blossoms shiver and shake, twirl in the sky like pink confetti. Draw a word picture of the twisted branches of the Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, the slick straightness of the American beech.
Bring those words home with you. And when you are ready, give them to your characters. In times of crisis, when all goes wrong, let them feel the solidness of the earth below them. Give them the refuge of the woods and sky. Of the unchanging sun and stars. Give them the phases of the moon for hope. But don’t forget to keep some for yourself.
And rise.
Now it’s your turn, my friends. What aspects of nature bring you comfort? Are there specific places that you turn to, and do you use those places in your work?
Liz Michalski’s (she/her) second novel, Darling Girl, was published in 2022 by Dutton. Her first novel, Evenfall, was published by Berkley Books (Penguin). Liz has been a reporter, an editor, and a freelance writer. In her previous life, she wrangled with ill-tempered horses and oversized show dogs. These days she’s downsized to one husband, two children and a medium-sized mutt.
Gorgeous. Your images bring the trees right next to me sitting at my computer in my study. Thank you for this stunning article.
Thanks Linda! I hope it helps you write on hard days.
This is so beautifully written and so perfect for this moment. I will recall this in the many moments when I’m stuck without words. Thank you.
Thanks so much Cindy. Good luck with your writing!
Ah, yes, the sturdy constant supportive reminders offered to us by the natural world, our original home. For me it’s water; I grew up by water (first a legendary great river and later the ocean), and water insists on entering my writings often. My characters are camped out by a lake for two weeks (the duration of the narrative), and I can already see how their different responses to it will enrich the story. Thanks, Liz.
Water is such a paradox — constant and yet always changing — and I’ll bet you can use it so many different ways to advance your story. Thank you for reading!
Gorgeous, poetic post today, Liz, thank you. Trees and birds center me on the daily, but what I love best is light. Not just any light, either, but that saturated light you sometimes see after rain, in the evening, when the sun is setting. Everything looks rich and real and promising. It’s one of my favorite things.
Thanks, my friend. And I adore that image. I love that magical hour just before sunset as well. It makes everything look like a painting.
Absolutely lovely, Liz. Really.
We live on the water, on Lake Ontario. The lake changes by the minute, hour, day . . . and the constant flux reminds me how fleeting every moment is, how precious, and how the rough days and calm days combine to form a rounded force of nature.
Life is like that too. Root and rise. Love it.
Hugs
Dee
That sounds lovely Dee. Thank you for sharing an image of your home. I’m very jealous.
If there can be any upside to the past year of crazy, it may be that more people spent time outside, walking, listening, feeling. For me, the outdoors has always been a sanctuary. Sitting with my feet in a running stream is the best medicine for anything, and walking clears the brain fog. When I’m stuck in my work, I walk. Rain, snow, sun, it doesn’t matter. Yes, root to rise. The yoga analogy fits perfectly with writing. You ground yourself in craft and practice, then gain the freedom to reach and bend. Beautiful post, Liz. Thank you!
I’m the same way, Susan — walking is like therapy for me, either alone or with a friend. (Although I’ve been turning to yoga quite a bit during these times as well.) I’m glad you enjoyed the post.
Hey Liz – Just here to gush about the poetry of your writing. It’s always there. And the metaphors you’ve chosen here are so apt.
Thanks for getting my writing day off to an inspired start. It really does feel like a “brand new day,” doesn’t it? Cheers!
Thanks for your kind words my friend. I know how much you love the outdoors as well, and I so enjoy your images when you share them. And yes, a new dawn and a new day!
Walking with my dog, watching the bees being industrious, listening to the chatter of squirrels and birds, a symphony really. Thanks for the lovely post, Liz.
Vijaya, that sounds like beautiful background music for writing! Thanks so much for reading.
Such a beautiful view through your eyes. Thank you for this glimpse into what you see. It makes me want to read your work.
I understand the need for the constants the rocks, the trees, the water changing on the surface but always the same. I believe as humans this gives us comfort because it reminds us of the reality of the eternal-our forever, our home beyond the supeficialities of time. I like to take walks with my 3-year-old grandson in the garden especially when the roses are out. His affinity with the flowers is connected far beyond the scope of three human years and rooted in his knowledge of eternity. And, in those moments I understand what heaven is by his reactions.
Thank you for reminding me with your post today- of how deep and all encompassing those roots to eternity are.
Blessed be your journey.
That’s beautiful imagery, Bernadette, and how lucky you are to share such time and wonder with your grandson. It really does sound like heaven.
On my desk is an earthen plate holding pens and stones gathered from the eastern side of Crescent Beach, on the peninsula where I live in British Columbia, near a steep stairs called the Thousand Steps.
The pens remind me to write. The stones remind me of the sound of waves, the calm Salish Sea, the spreading beach tree under which I was wed, the span of my life and the lessons I’ve learned.
The stones were around before I was born and will remain after I’m gone, as I hope will a few of my words. Words root me and words–yours, mine, ours–weave into stories, the things that endure.
Thanks, Liz.
This is beautiful, Don. Thank you. (And the next time we have a conference, I hope you’ll add stone from Salem so that when you heft it in your hand you think of all of us.)
Lovely, evocative images, Liz. Nature is always a balm to the stress of the day for me, or an invigorating way to start the day if I can drag myself out there early in the morning. I never regret it, so why do I resist? Hikes in the woods with friends are my go-to on the weekends, walks along the ocean during the week. We are always better for it both physically and mentally. Thanks for the reminder to use what we see and feel in our writing.
I am the same way, Deborah. Sometimes I have to force myself outside but then I am always glad that I did. So odd how we resist the things that are good for us.
“Close your eyes and listen to the earth’s lullaby.”
Yes, ma’am! Beautiful stuff, Liz.
Three or four days a week I walk the area slough trails (there are several) with my girlfriend. The water sparkles, the birds sing, and (mostly) the sun shines. Lately there have been contingents of ducks, Canadian geese, coots, herons and white pelicans showing off. The do a lot of rooting and rising. Thanks!
“Close your eyes and listen to the earth’s lullaby.”
Yes, ma’am! Beautiful stuff, Liz.
Three or four days a week I walk the area slough trails (there are several) with my girlfriend. The water sparkles, the birds sing, and (mostly) the sun shines. Lately there have been contingents of ducks, Canadian geese, coots, herons and white pelicans showing off. They do a lot of rooting and rising. Thanks!
That sounds beautiful Tom. And I love watching the birds too, particularly the herons. Thanks so much for reading!
I detest the feeling of being cold, yet can’t resist the rhythmic rise and fall of the ocean and swimming in it, summer and winter, unless the waves are rolling in like thunder.. Luckily, I live in Hawaii where January-frigid to us translates as “chilly” to others. Still, although low 70’s water temps are not comfortable, after a hundred strokes or so, some of the solidified sap that lines the “bark” of my mind melts and leaks into the awareness. Ideas.
David, that sounds like an amazing way to get in touch with nature and your thoughts. And I cannot tell you how jealous I am of your surroundings, since I’m sitting in New England where the temperatures are just above single digits.
I can identify, Liz. I grew up in Pennsylvania. I’m not sure why it took me so long to realize that there were places on the planet where your tongue did not freeze to power poles.
This is beautiful, Liz. Poetic wisdom.
Thanks so much for reading, Lisa!
I feel gratified that everyone else is labeling this poetry. You have a maahvelous sense of place, Liz. Truly a gift.
Thank you so much for your editorial eyes on the first draft Jan!