When a Tree Falls
Some of my married friends can’t stand to see me single. They are quick to set me up with any single person they meet. They are frustrated, on my behalf, that I haven’t found a significant other in a long time. My life is missing the key ingredient in which they have found fulfillment, so I must feel empty. “You’re a wonderful person,” they tell me. “Have you tried joining the local theater? An ultimate frisbee team?” Neither of these are activities I enjoy, but they say I should try harder. In fact, they’ve spent a significant amount of time discussing all the potential reasons I might be single and concluded it must be a lack of effort.
One afternoon, in response to the time-old question – “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” – my dear friend Gemma tells me about how reality is relative to perception. As we continue our trek through the shimmering gold leaves that blanket the Chattahoochee Forest, Gemma bears witness to the soft moss I touch, the baby mushrooms I pluck, and the chipmunks that run across fallen logs. I ask Gemma, what separates reality from delusion?
“Delusion does not serve you,” she says. “It lacks authenticity and may be harmful to yourself or others.”
My concerned married friends mean well, but their approach dismisses the abundance that already exists for me. They don’t see how love flows in my life because I do not put romantic love on a pedestal. This practice in nurturing all forms of love allows me to belong to a greater, collective love that cannot and should not be encompassed by a single individual. In fact, I wonder if those particular married friends feel lonely, burdened by the responsibility to be everything for their partner. I’ve noticed the absence of deeper connections and support systems in their lives. Yet, they stare at my naked ring finger and believe that I am the one who is unfulfilled.
If only they could understand how my spirit finds communion and intimacy in Gemma’s living room, where my nonconformist friends and I spend Sunday mornings sprawled across an enormous sectional, listening to audiobooks and understanding relationships between ourselves and Mother Earth. We dissect the ways green capitalism has harmed us and the communities we deeply care for. We discuss how models of mutual aid can create more space for rest and reciprocative care. We talk about the mistakes we’ve made and our catalysts for self-growth and self-discovery. The conversations are accented by silly quips and belly laughs that leave us wheezing on the floor. On Mondays, my cheeks are sore from the hours spent giggling. The squeezing tightness of my friends’ farewell hugs is imprinted in my flesh and my heart spills over with joy each time I think of being held by them.
How do I show the ways that acts of kindness serve as sustenance for my soul? One frosty October morning, my roommate Sully brews a cup of coffee as he gets ready to go to South Atlanta to pick up another bicycle. I know that Sully prefers his cozy bed on cold mornings like these so this particular bicycle must be special. I wonder how this one is different from the nine bicycles in our attic. He comes back after a couple hours and spends the rest of the morning polishing and tuning up the bicycle. He also takes out a tiny paintbrush to add some gold detailing as personal touches. When he is finally done, Sully knocks on my bedroom door and tells me to come check out my new bike. He’s had eBay alerts for a Masi fixie like this for years and he wants me to have it.
“Now you can join the gang for our weekly group rides,” he tells me.
It is a warm, welcoming invitation to belong to a larger community. Later that week, we ride down to the neighborhood taco spot. I proudly lock up my bike next to dozens of bicycles, excited to be the newest member of Atlanta’s cycling scene. I don’t mind how my helmet flattens my sweaty bangs or how my calves burn when I pedal up an incline. When I ride my bike, I remember that I am cared for.
When a tree falls in a forest, even if no one is around to hear it, everything has changed for the tree. Every day, I see all the ways that love comes into my life. Where my married friends see deficiency is the space in which I build love and belonging. I am a witness to these experiences, though I have no tangible evidence. Yet these tender feelings nourish me and support my practice of living consciously.
On Valentine’s Day, I find myself in Gemma’s living room again. I don’t feel the least bit sorry for myself. I’m surrounded by old and new friends, including some who are single and some who are partnered, but have chosen to celebrate love in all its forms. We arrange little bouquets, snack on sweet treats, and come up with silly questions to ask each other. In this moment, there is no other place that I would rather be.
The next day, Gemma texts us to reflect on the previous evening.
“Like soup for my soul,” she says. “My little heart is so full.