Can fake trees heal?

Wrestling with the tension of it all

I went to Hawaii and fell in love with the land my now-dead brother adored. On the plane back, my partner and I sketched out our dream tropical backyard. A month later, all the boxes arrived, all the pieces are together and I love it. It’s full of sensory shimmers that make me shiver with joy.

But.

The trees are fake.

All ordered from Amazon, a business I’m unsuccessfully boycotting at the moment.

The joy is real.

The artificial turf in the backyard of our new-to-us home is not.

The peace I feel there is real.

So is the…shame.

I have a story I tell myself that these fake things can’t nourish.

But they are.

They’re nourishing my autistic ADHD full-time working pastor writer mom wife self who kills plants but heals hearts.

I rest in the backyard, listening to the water flow.
Branches sway in the gentle breeze.
Clear pebbles sparkle in the sun.

My nervous system unwinds and breathes itself home.

Is it okay that fake things are healing me?

On an early Saturday in May, I gather with new friends at a park. We lie in the grass and listen to the leaves above us. The breeze flutters and branches dance. We tell stories of the wisdom nature holds. We talk of trees that guide us home to ourselves. We walk on paths reflecting on the cycle of nature and how it so often mirrors the invitations we receive as humans. The life, death, and resurrection of it all.

Then I go home and stare at my fake palm tree.

Maybe it’s grief too.

I found something new of my brother in Hawaii. And part of me scrambled to hold onto it. To put it in my backyard. His carefree spirit. His sandals and shorts vibe all year long in Alaska. His adventurous spirit that would jump off cliffs and toss nieces and nephews in the air.

So I retreat to my backyard where my body remembers how to breathe. Where these visual cues of relaxation remind my body to step out of the to-do list and into this actual present moment. Where my brother’s spirit feels alive.

In the meantime, I sit in the tension of it all.

Real dirt and roots and trees that cycle with each season guide me. My favorite trees in the neighborhood hold my weight as I lean against them to say hello. They hold a wisdom that fake trees can never duplicate.

I slip off my sandals and put my feet up and glance heavenward as a palm branch waves hello. I smile.

Somehow it all gets to be true.

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• There She Is: Love Notes on Finding Home

• Still Here: A Poetry Memoir on Grief & Love

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