It takes work to get to a place of splitting the heartwood of the self into bits and planting them, burying them, in the garden to grow into a new version of self. Death can feel like this. Wolves can conquer you. Loved ones can become the rats with teeth to chew you into a new tree. A tree that keeps growing after the help of destruction.
It takes work to be depressed. Without a lunch. Or a shade. Or a city on which to walk the sidewalks in the afternoon to watch leaves fall. To lose even the books on the bedside table and the telephone in your pocket. To lose taste and postcards from friends. It takes work to begin again.
Once the wolves, the rats, the tribunal gathers, let them have their say and sweat and become whatever they build you up to be. Whatever kind of tree, or shade, or stranger they need. Let them feed.
Break down. Break open. Be weak. Let whatever they want to see be seen.
Now bury, now sleep, now garden all night your useless ocean. Break the heartwood open.
Whatever tribe the turning of wolves who turn on you, whatever the strangeness your body now feels that sleeps and buries and burns, whatever inside you, hidden, dies, whatever tree, know this is what’s meant to be. Love the ones that love you and destroy you.
No one became stronger in a room alone without wolves and teeth and burying.