Don’t blame rabbits for being rabbits
Last August I planted an Oak Tree to celebrate arrival in my new home.
I planted the sapling in a rough patch of ground towards the top of the garden.
I wrote about it at the time — full of hope and optimism.
Things did not go well.
As Autumn deepened, I talked often to my tree. I admired its browning leaves and encouraged it as winds strengthened towards winter.
One day, seeing it overgrown, I cleared its patch so it could make the most of the dwindling light.
The next day its leaves were gone.
Not fallen in autumnal gentleness — eaten.
Rabbits.
My living tree transformed to two naked, fragile twigs.
Was I to blame? In clearing the space, in trying to help, perhaps I’d exposed my tree to danger which, previously, it was safe from.
I wanted to curse the rabbits. But why? They took what they needed to survive — as we all do. I can’t enjoy seeing rabbits, but curse them for eating what they need to eat.
The previous owner of this house, embittered by the loss of her hens, told us we should buy a gun to kill the fox who lives at the top of the garden.
But the fox is beautiful, and when I see him from my kitchen window, his russet brown enriches the surrounding green like laughter in a crowded room.
I can’t love the hawk, but hate that it takes an occasional sparrow from my feeder.
Life is complex and each of us does what we need to survive.
My sapling faced the winter naked and broken.
I put up a fence to protect it (‘too late’, I thought, ‘too late’). I visited it and asked it not to give up, as winter lengthened into spring.
In March the garden woke.
Beech trees turned from brown to green.
Apple blossom.
Ankle high grass reached waist-height overnight.
My sapling was inert.
No leaves.
No way to turn sunlight to food.
No sign of life.
Several times I almost took away the fence, feeling I’d failed, wanting to forget my shame.
I spoke sometimes with to the leafless twigs, about what I’d imagined — how it would outlast me by centuries, become a home to many other things.
Once, I actually cried, on a day when my own life felt too bleak.
Yesterday, I saw a tiny bud on one of the twigs. There are three more growths that, protected from rabbits, may also turn to leaves.
Protected in the space I made for it, my tree is choosing to live.
Create space.
Hold space.
Refuse despair.
Trust time.
Life heals.
Though others destroy parts of us to sustain themselves, in safe space, the life-force returns.
Sometimes you must stay dormant for a long time before strength returns. But it will return.
Life is full of wonder and the awesome possibility of miracles.
I’ll hold space for my sapling until it no longer needs me. Then it will grow and be what only it can be.
That’s what I offer to those I coach too.
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After thirty years performing, directing and teaching all around the world, now I coach and mentor artists and others to live in joy and creativity. More information about me here: www.johnbritton.co .
I’ve space for some new 1-on-1 clients at the moment. If you ‘re consdiering getting some individual guidance on liberating your creativity and bringing yourself into closer alignment with the life you want to live, use this link to find a time when we can chat. No obligation, just conversation.
