Forests and falls

How recent experiences in nature are helping me 🌳

Hello, reader!

A few months ago,

Ramona Grigg

challenged me to give Substack a try without having a detailed plan upfront. I’d complained about not having a niche and was too nervous to get going. I respect Ramona and continue to think about her comment as I write online again.

One of my worries was that personal narratives wouldn’t have a place at Nōto. I’m not inclined to think what the hell—I’ll write what I want! But putting today’s post together felt right, and I want to pay more attention to those internal nudges. This newsletter is an experiment after all.

As always, I’d love to hear from you in the comments!

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Forests and falls

At the end of June, I turned 30.

Aaron and I returned to the same cabin where we’d mini-mooned in March. He gave me a bright yellow hammock a day early so I could nestle beneath the trees like a life-sized banana. We planned to hike towards a small waterfall and tuck ourselves into that nylon, anonymous and at rest.

But after half an hour in the forest, the sky, starting with a whisper, gradually begins to whine and branches begin to whip. As adventurous as we are, it doesn’t feel right to stay. We turn back to the trail wide enough for only single file. We nod our heads to families reemerging into the public as rain hits. At first, it’s sort of fun. But then the storm progresses.

I’m wearing the wrong shoes for hiking and trying not to slip.¹ By now, the rain is a thick curtain. My glasses are fogged and useless. We are all running.

Aaron shouts something like if you can, look up for falling trees! but I’m looking down, focused on not falling myself. Somehow, while running and holding my hand, he’s able to look above and below and behind.

It sounds like wind is ripping the sky. Later, once we are safe, Aaron tells me this was the sound of trees breaking in the forest. But I’m glad I don’t know that yet.

At last, the trailhead is in sight and we leap into the car. Every piece of clothing sticks like spandex. My curly hair weighs five pounds. We look at each other—bewildered, grateful, and ready for the warm cabin.

As we begin our drive, we see evidence of the severe storm for miles. Trees you’d think were indestructible? On the ground. Power lines tangled like necklace chains. Fences flat. Country roads with folks in their tractors, doing what they can to start clearing the mess.

We have no cell service or GPS, just a general idea of where we think we need to be. Our gas is nearing empty. Three gas stations have no gas. In a brief moment with reception, I call my sister and try describing where we are. She pieces together directions. We guesstimate that we should have enough gas in the car to get us to a station in the morning. So we keep driving.

Finally, we arrive at the cabin. We fall asleep within the hour and wake at 9pm. Aaron makes us steak while I watch a Disney movie. We can’t believe how exhausted we are. Adrenaline must’ve held our bodies up till they were safe to rest.

At midnight, my love wishes me a happy birthday. I’m now the age I’ve dreamt of since my teens.²

The next morning, we eat carrot cake for breakfast and feel rejuvenated enough to try for another hike and waterfall. This round, it is bliss.

We take our time, wandering and wondering the way we often do when in nature. Aaron is the best guide. His encyclopedic brain thrives out here, and he’s enraptured by sprawling moss, the mushrooms popping up in rows, and every new plant he IDs.³ He tells me new scientific facts while I pet soft leaves, giggle at little bugs, and try following a periwinkle butterfly. Our planet is lovely, and so is this birthday.

The waterfall roars and we can’t help but pay attention. Aaron lets the water wash over him, waking his senses. I splash around the periphery. It’s just the two of us near the falls on this unhurried afternoon. No to-do list governing my day or my mind. It’s unnatural to meet the pace of the forest, but it also feels like this is what we’re made for. There is a mystery here, one that can’t be uncovered in one afternoon. I need to return some day.

I settle into my hammock. I wonder if I should grab my notebook and start putting down some thoughts. It seems like a good practice for a writerly person, especially on their 30th in a forest. Not in the mood for more shoulds, I decide against it. Instead, I look up as far as I can. There’s a limit to how much tree I’m able to take in. It’s simply not possible to follow those leaves to the tippy-top. But that doesn’t really matter, because what I do see tells a story enough. Today these trees stand tall, with the vast sky as their ceiling.

It’s been three decades and I’m still here, after all that’s stormed against me. I look up in hopefulness. Resilience is growing in me.

A couple of days later and while on PTO, I lose my job. My employer lays off 10% of its workforce for the second time since last year.

Within minutes, I’m deactivated from all systems. Removed from every colleague and project I care about. I know how this works—your profile immediately goes gray and your online presence is gone. I worked 100% remotely, so there was no one to wave goodbye to. I close my laptop, walk to the kitchen in silence, and look at Aaron. We’re in disbelief.

It’s now the end of July and one month without employment. I still haven’t organized the spice cabinet, vacuumed car crumbs from our road trip, started a children’s book plot, spruced up my resume, finished all the wedding thank you cards, or found real job leads.⁴ It feels like I’m running in rain again without the right footwear or clear vision. I’m trying not to slip or get knocked out from falling objects. And I don’t even know if I’m going in the right direction!

I suspect most people don’t feel like their lives are in order after going through any unexpected change or loss. It’s upsetting, and even with all the well-intentioned advice or positivity out there, there is still a process for grief and growth.

I don’t anticipate being jobless forever, but while I am, I wonder if this is that chance to practice an unhurried life. As I write this, I think back to the spot by the falls and remember how there was both power and beauty in what I couldn’t fully see or understand.

When I look ahead, around, and even above me—I know I’m not alone. Sure, it still seems like the sky is tearing apart a bit. But I will keep going. And maybe instead, this could be my story of falling up instead of down.

Thanks for taking the time to read!
—E.T.

PS. Interested in more essays like this? Click that little heart at the bottom of the post. 💛

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1. I’m kind of a shoe minimalist and often end up with the wrong footwear for the occasion. 😅 My friends gave me birthday $$ to buy proper shoes, and I got funky trail-runners on mega sale!

2. I’ve wanted gray hair and wrinkles for years. 30 seems like a good age to acquire more, right? They’re pretty.

3. We use the Seek app by iNaturalist as we discover new plants, bugs, and fungi! 🍄

4. I recognize the privilege of having been a two-income household before getting laid off. The financial burden doesn’t weigh as heavily as it does for some, and I hold that with gratitude but also compassion. Most of my former team is still looking for new roles, and they deserve to find a wonderful fit. If any of you are reading this—I miss working with you!