When the Tree Isn't Just a Tree

What meaning do you bring to your stories?

There’s a redbud tree in our backyard that I spent years trying to get rid of.

It planted itself uninvited in a sunny flower bed—right where my mother’s hot-pink peonies and violet irises bloom each spring. For three years, I trimmed back that tree. I dug at its roots. I tried to reclaim the space, year after year. But like a squatter, it kept coming back. Quietly, insistently. Finally last year, I surrendered.

“Okay,” I said taking off the gardening gloves and setting down the spade. “If you want it that much, you can stay.”

Now it’s tall, strong, and reshaping the entire bed. What was once a spot of full sun is now becoming shade. I know this will impact the peonies and irises, and I may need to move them in the years ahead. But the redbud is beautiful—full of life and grace and joy. It can grow now, unchecked.

In contrast, years ago, Bob and I planted a redbud in the front yard on purpose. We chose the spot, prepared the soil, hoped for its beauty. But it never took hold. It languished, refusing to grow, until a storm came through and knocked it down for good.

I’ve given both of these trees so many meanings.

The backyard tree reminds me that sometimes the best things in life are not the ones we’ve planned. It reminds me that energy has its own wisdom. That trying to control or fight what wants to grow only leads to frustration. And that surrender isn’t giving up—it’s letting life show you what it wants to become.

The front yard tree reminds me that forcing something—whether it’s a project, a relationship, or even a story—rarely leads to anything lasting. You can give it your effort, your intention, your care. But if it doesn’t want to grow, it won’t. Not there. Not like that.

And of course, none of this is really about trees.

It’s about the meanings I assign. The stories I tell. The way I interpret what happens around me. The lens I look through.

We are always bringing meaning to what we see. Not just in our writing, but in our lives. The meaning is never about what we look upon. Instead, it reflects what we think about ourselves.

That’s what we do as humans. That’s what we do as writers. The tree is never just a tree. The rejection letter isn’t just about the letter. The hard conversation isn’t just about the words we exchange. We’re always assigning meaning—sometimes from habit, sometimes from hurt, sometimes from hope.

And we can choose to see differently.

When I look at that redbud now, I don’t see an intruder or a nuisance. I see something wise and alive. I see a lesson in acceptance. I see the beauty of what grows when you stop trying to control everything. I see a reminder that everything is in constant flux, and trying to preserve what has always been may get in the way of something much better.

I let the tree grow. And it did the same for me.

So what stories are you telling right now?

What meanings are you assigning—in life and in your writing—to what’s growing, what’s struggling, and what’s refusing to bloom?

And what might happen if you paused and simply observed?

The story might change. The meaning might shift. And something new in you just might have the space to take root.

With blessings,

Deb

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