I often walk in nature… it is often some of the deepest parts of my spiritual practice.

This practice is rooted in noticing what flows toward me. What stories are unfolding and what lessons might be revealed. I find that the environment reliably holds me. And informs me. There is deep active listening on the ways of the earth.

Yesterday, I intuitively chose a path near my home that eventually would lead to the area where a wildfire had erupted recently in a nature preserve. They evacuated some of the homes near me. Fortunately it was put out quickly. And no one was hurt and no human homes were touched. I have avoided this area because I thought I might feel sadness over seeing the delicate nature being harmed.

The smell of charred brush, chaparral and trees hit my nose first. You know the smell - that dense, sooty, thick odor. Given all of the losses we have born and how things have been for the world, I was not sure I could face the sorrow of seeing it. But my legs kept moving.

When I approached the area. I suddenly felt a curiosity, rather than a sadness.

What might a burned area teach me?  What might be shown to me?

There were, predictably, charred black trees… the skeletons of shrubs and stubs of plants. Blackened rocks and parched soil. Lots of black. And then, I noticed that it was punctuated by dots of a peculiar color.

In a landscape that was fully tarnished by ash - there were dozens of golden tan tumbleweeds. The contrast was strangely beautiful. They gleamed in the sunshine in stark contrast to the charred black terrain. Their circular branches were beautifully architectural. And they seemed to be my teacher for the day.

And so, this is where my brain went. Here were my ponderings:

Every living plant that was rooted - burned. Everything that was sedentary burned.

But the tumbleweeds were not burned. All it takes is the slightest of air and tumbleweeds are on the move. So maybe they arrived right after the fire, or perhaps they blew around due to the fire’s air current. Or maybe they went up like a Roman candle and these were the few ones that avoided that fate… it is impossible to know.

The difficult truth about this nature lesson is that one must admit that tumbleweeds thrive with disturbed soil situations and are considered invasive in many situations. They are highly flammable.

And you can argue that they are dead. They are. But the thing about tumbleweeds is - that they release their seeds after they are dead.

A tumbleweed is a dead plant. There are about 10 species that become tumbleweeds. The plants all have large nodules along the bottom stalk of the plant and those nodules make it easy for the base to snap. So when the time is right, they will snap from their base and start to tumble and they quickly die as they tumble. Their death is necessary for the plant to degrade gradually and fall apart so that its seed can escape during the tumbling. 

So my soul rested on this phrase. They release their seeds after they are dead. Unlike most of the plant kingdom, the magic for them, their fruitfulness and potency - is when they are dead.

Nature always can overturn the layers of expectation that we have over what to anticipate - like crazy animals like the blanket octopus or the sphinx moth…

The tumbleweeds gave me a whole new vision for what it might be to be in relationship with the deceased. When we think of the deceased, we tend to think that the days of their fruitfulness as being over. But what if that is not so? What if they are releasing seeds now? Right now may be their most fruitful moment?

And what does it mean for our lives and deaths as well?

So this landscape revealed two plant paths, both very different. One was more commonly known than the other. The rooted trees and shrubs burned and died. Their fruitfulness was based on their last season of seed dispersal before they burned.

But the tumbleweed showed another plant path. One of rootlessness, death and then dispersing seeds.

I will continue to reflect on this story. And I hope that you will reflect on it with me.