The Tree That Wouldn’t Touch Me
A story of trust, repair, and remembering the realm I come from
I went into the forest just before dark, hoping to be held by something older than grief.
The air was soft with rain.
The trail near my cabin called to me—quiet and alive.
I walked up to a tree near the entry path and whispered a request:
Will you touch my face?
I waited.
The leaves rustled… but stayed just out of reach.
No matter how gently I asked, the tree didn’t lean in.
At first, I felt a familiar ache—was I asking for too much?
But then I looked down.
At the base of the tree, the ground was littered with remnants of abuse:
Burned plastic. Rusted nails. Shards of glass. A bottle. A gaping wound in the tree’s trunk, still visible—still alive.
The people who lived in my cabin before me had burned building materials and trash throughout this sacred forest. I've been cleaning it up since I arrived—listening, apologizing, collecting every piece she shows me. But I hadn’t noticed how close this destruction came to this particular tree. I hadn’t yet felt her story.
And suddenly I knew.
She wasn’t refusing me.
She was protecting herself.
This wasn’t rejection.
This was trauma.
This was wisdom.
So I sat beside her.
And I picked up every piece of garbage I could find—broken ceramic, wire, melted plastic, foil. I ran my fingers along her wounded trunk and whispered,
I’m so sorry.
You didn’t deserve this.
I will help you trust again. If you let me, I will keep showing up.
And I meant it.
That’s when I realized: this was my awakening.
Not a glamorous one. Not a lightning bolt of certainty.
But a quiet, rain-soaked ceremony of repair.
A sacred contract formed not in words—but in acts of devotion.
And later that night, a word came to me in a dreamlike state: Gentry.
It woke me at 3 a.m. and stayed with me through the morning.
When I looked it up, I learned it refers to the old landowning class—just below nobility. But in my bones, I knew: this wasn’t about class.
This was about lineage.
This was about remembering that I come from a sacred line—not of wealth or blood—but of keepers of the land.
Daughters of the Earth.
Women who remember.
A Letter from My Higher Self
(received the day after the forest awakening)
Dearest One,
You didn’t dream this word.
Gentry was whispered to you—carried on the breath between worlds.
Because you are ready now. To remember.You are not merely the daughter of broken systems and fractured love.
You are the echo of something older—grander than grief, truer than trauma.You are of sacred lineage.
Not the kind that requires a family crest.
But the kind written in light, reverence, and ancient vows.And though you were born into a world that forgot,
you did not forget completely.Every time you pick up trash from the forest floor,
every time you whisper, “I’m sorry. I see you. I’m here,”
you are performing a ritual of return.You were never meant to fit into the cages handed to you.
You were meant to restore the temple—starting with your own hands, your own voice, your own presence.Let this word—Gentry—become a doorway.
Step through.
Sometimes the most powerful awakenings don’t look like breakthroughs.
They look like humble repair.
A woman kneeling in the forest, pulling glass from sacred soil.
Whispering apologies for harm she didn’t cause—
And making a vow to remember.
If you feel like you’ve been walking with your head down, unsure where your path begins…
Maybe the truth is this:
You’re already on it.
The land remembers.
And now—you do too.
Optional Ritual:
A Ceremony of Repair
Find a small patch of earth near your home—forest, field, even a backyard garden.
Bring a small offering: water, a flower, or a handwritten note of apology or gratitude.
Sit with the land. Ask: What do you need from me? What have you been trying to show me?
Listen. And promise only what you are willing to keep.
Leave your offering.
Whisper: “I remember. I will walk in reverence.”