Your Understory
Finding Life and Death in Our Hidden Places
A few weeks back, I shared the story of a moment when someone else’s honesty – the simple act of naming – became invitational for me. Then I encouraged you to scout around: is there a place in your life asking for more permission to be fully seen or felt?
Sometimes things need air — space. Sometimes things need movement — process. And a lot of times, they need both.
I’m back today, revisiting these ideas from a little different vantage point.
In his poem, How to Listen, James Pearson uses the forest floor as a metaphor. (I do hope you’ll click that link and give yourself the grace of a few deep breaths as beautiful words wash over you!)
The forest floor is a metaphor I’ve been thinking about a lot recently, thanks to a hiking trip I’ve planned later this month (Glacier National Park!) AND Lore Ferguson Wilbert’s recent book, The Understory. Lore uses that term – the title of her book – both scientifically, to describe a layer of vegetation in wooded areas, and metaphorically, to tell “the story beneath the story.”
Her metaphor is powerful in several ways. First, it invites us to consider the idea that places of hardship and paradox — places that feel dead or complicated — may be sturdy enough to walk around.
It’s one thing to see a fallen log or to smell a pile of rotting leaves — but to envision an actual, tangible forest floor? That feels playful and inviting. Perhaps sturdy enough to bear the weight of careful steps. Maybe even a place where — apart from my efforts — bouncy soil would bring energy and lift.
The metaphor also shoulders tension. A forest floor isn’t one thing – it’s the composite of many (disparate!) things, each element with its own unique form and function. Inside of hard places and difficult seasons, it’s easy to fixate on the dying, rotting thing. But those always decompose inside of a larger ecosystem.
Lore’s reflections on mulch were especially honest, visceral, and hopeful, I thought. Those are all adjectives I hope to use in describing my story. (The not-so-subtle subtext? Perhaps this is how it happens.)
“The smell is earth. The scent is life.
But it carries with it the fragrance of death.
How can something decaying still smell so alive?
Try it. Stand in the woods or a garden or the landscape section of a big-box store and scoop a handful of earth into your hands. This earth was once bright green leaves and tree bark and animal excrement and mosses and fungi. It is the great composition of life and a symphony of death. It is a paradox.”
Lore goes on to describe the inevitable – and necessary – process that must unfold down inside of the understory, if these raw materials are to become their composite whole:
“…to complete the decomposition process and become nutrient-rich, loamy soil, the compost needs air, water, and other microorganisms. And likewise with us. In order to heal, we need space to breathe, permission to weep, and the presence of a friend who will help us make sense of it all: air, water, and living things. Or as Diane Langberg says, ‘Trauma healing always requires talking, tears, and time.’”
Perhaps this is true of all healing?!
What a good reminder to step back into “both // and” engagement with our stories – they are hard and good, they ask for time and process, they unfold alone and together. By all these means, we make our way into becoming the “nutrient rich, loamy soil” we hope to resemble.
How might we wake up into our day if all of it belonged? As you think about your understory, I wonder…
If the “muddy corners” of your life had “unquestioned belonging” – what might they be saying to you?
As you scan your “both // and” story – what’s becoming more clear?
Dear ones, there are so many reasons we sneak around sideways when tricky moments, hard circumstances, or big feelings show up. But I’m increasingly aware of how important it is to stay present. To be – right here and right now.
In the words of James Pearson…
PS It’s not too late to download your permission slip – click below! (Did you know that writing things down drastically changes outcomes?!)
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Loved this piece. So insightful. My mind kept going to Jesus; as the master transformer of death (his and ours) into abundant life.
Or as Diane Langberg says, ‘Trauma healing always requires talking, tears, and time.’” - this resonated with me today, friend - thank you for this.... Love you so! xoxo