The Habits of Satisfied People
A closer look at the things we protect
In September, my thoughts turn toward trees.
(Trees for fall? Groundbreaking.)
Over the weekend I went Upstate and imagined how the Catskill Mountains will look in early November, like a spectacular spice market mishap where chili pepper, saffron, paprika, peppercorns, and turmeric mix together in breathtaking clumps.
Every year we get an opportunity to marvel at nature's lesson in letting go, loss, and lamenting: The trees do it with such ease and elegance.
But, and I'm a bit ashamed to admit this as a Tree Enthusiast, this is the first year I've given thought as to....why exactly the trees let go of leaves?
You'll want to moonwalk out of this newsletter now if you were hoping for a comprehensive exploration on tree science, but I learned that this is the gist:
Leaves, whether they the tree's babies or costume or art show, are very fragile. They are also big energy sucks. The tree spends a lot of time protecting their lovely little leaf organs. Besides providing poetic fodder for us and room & board for small animals, it's basically their full-time job.
Then: The old familiar cycle of death and renewal. Dim light and dreary days begin, and the trees' priorities change. Leaves are a liability when trees need to conserve resources during the winter, so off they go.
In the dying process, leaves lose their verdant wetsuits and their true hue is revealed underneath: caramel, cerise, golden.
(Similarly, human beings sometimes reveal their essential truths in their final days.)
Trees let go of their leaves in order to protect what's most important: their essence. They also let go in order to protect their vitality for new growth in spring, their ability to spread pollen and create more trees across the land, and the hope of healthier stronger leaves next year.
An oak or a birch tree protects its outward accoutrements all summer, then protects its insides at the time when students return to school and twilight cuts the evening in half.
This has got me thinking. What am I protecting?
I protect many parts of my life that I love and care about, but I also needlessly protect things that are ready to be let go.
Last week, my therapist asked me why it's so terrifying for me to feel deceived. Sure, nobody loves being lied to, but my overwhelming fear of deceit interferes with what's good and beautiful in my life.
I mulled it over all week, and identified a pretty horrible memory of being deceived during a formative time. So that's a possible culprit, or, at least, conspirator.
I did an activity during therapy: I painted a picture of how I would change that particular memory if I could redo the whole thing. Instead of being lied to, I was cherished. Instead of feeling deceived, I felt loved. I rewrote the words, the characters, the scene, and used watercolors to give it life.
When I finished the image, I felt a release. I was no longer holding so tight to that moment and protecting its narrative as the Truth of My Life. I exhaled out my desperate attachment to what the incident had to say about my self-worth.
Apparently I was doing something called "imagery rescripting."
But as part of my Annual Tree Phase, I like to think I was going through the steps of shedding my own leaves, the things I had been tightly protecting:
First, the leaves revealed their hidden colors to me.
I let them fall softly away.
I redirected my protective efforts to my roots, my tough bark, my insides.
Later, I'll replenish myself with new perspectives, thoughts, and feelings: new growth to protect.
Every September feels like a bonus new year to me: Whether it's Springtime Renewal in the Southern Hemisphere or Back to School in the Northern, it's a special transition time when I spend a lot of walks in reflection—about my year so far, my life so far.
A question that comes up frequently on these pensive strolls is:
"What do I admire most right now?"
And these days, to the surprise of a more ambitious former version of myself, I greatly admire people who are satisfied with their lives.
They are people who radiate a calm peace, wherever they are. They have the awareness to enjoy the season they're in. They routinely express gratitude for the charmed years, and integrate the challenging ones.
I like hearing that people like their lives.
The most satisfied of these people have been through hardships, some of them unspeakably hard. And yet they've managed to incorporate them like a tree does, letting the rings of all their experiences push them to grow stronger and wider.
When I look to the tree cycles, I wonder if being satisfied with your life is about what you choose to protect. It's not so much about what happens to you or what you achieve (snore) but what you're actively nurturing, and what you let go in the process.
I see deeply satisfied, peaceful people:
Protect their days: They respect their time enough to disengage from fruitless arguments and cruel feedback.
Protect their spirit: They generously spread their spirit across love, creativity, dreams, and the comfortable mundane.
Protect their people: They keep their circle nourished and vibrant, and small if they must.
Protect their path: They pay loving attention to the path they're on. They're increasingly uninterested in the destination because the path astonishes them.
Have you noticed how peaceful and satisfied trees look? They carefully choose what to protect.
I don't need to protect rotted memories anymore. Like decaying leaves at the end of summer, I can let them go and seal the wound. 'Tis the season to protect the interior.
P.S. Today marks four years since we lost the rapper/philosopher Mac Miller in physical form, so I'd love to share my favorite performance of his, beginning at this mark. This is what happens when you put your full self into art: everyone can tell. A forever inspiration.