Have you heard about fairy rings? What sounds like a mythical event is actually a natural phenomenon of the coastal redwoods. When a giant redwood dies or is cut down new sprouts begin to form from its shallow root structure. The sprouts, having been nourished by the adult tree and underground mycelium networks, pop up in a near perfect circle around where the adult tree stood. While the younger trees share some of the same genetic code from the adult, they are distinct and singular in their being while in this new formation together. And there we have a fairy ring, also called a family circle. 

It’s been one year since I wrote Let Us Be Like the Trees. A year since I received the gender affirming care that changed my life in many ways. I woke up from top surgery crying and when the nurse asked if I was alright I replied, “I’m just so relieved.” As Tu BiShvat nears again, the new year for the trees and also my top surgery anniversary on the Hebrew calendar, I thought I’d write a few more reflections now on being a tree.

Over the last year I’ve learned I could love my body more than I thought I could. I learned I could feel confident in ways that I didn’t know I needed. I feel unimaginable joy just from looking in the mirror. The scars on my chest are symbols of pride and radical defiance of the systems that try to tell me I don’t exist. I knew it would be good, but I didn’t know it could be THIS good. 

Dear reader, I wish I could stop there, at how good it’s been, but this year has also been one of deep pain. 

On the personal end, this has been a year of making the difficult decision to distance myself from biological family who refuse to see me as the person I am. I have mourned and continue to move with grief that blooms between the broken tethers. The stress has resulted in an autoimmune flare that causes major discomfort and I’ve had to relearn how to listen to what my body needs. 

Zooming out, we’re seeing an escalation of targeted attacks against marginalized communities after decades (and centuries) of systemic oppression. As I type this, ICE raids rage on in Minneapolis and many other cities. Families are being torn apart and civilians are being murdered in the street for trying to protect their neighbors. Scholars have begun to sound the alarm that the U.S. is in early stages of genocide against trans Americans, something the trans community has been warning for years. There are federal proposals that would ban healthcare for trans people nationwide, and the Supreme Court has started to hear arguments in cases that will greatly impact the rights of trans people, especially trans women.

I think about my refrain from last year—

Inhale

We are here. We won’t stop fighting. We will not concede.

Exhale

This is where the fairy rings come in—

When I first learned about fairy rings they instantly made me think of a minyan gathering to recite kaddish. With the utmost admiration I started referring to the rings as a Redwood Minyan. 

I am in awe of the strength and care that come from these trees. When there is loss, it is the role of the collective to mourn and carry on the story of their ancestor. Each unique tree supports the others in this process of regeneration, continuing to grow tall while their roots stretch and communicate with other nearby trees. Family circles don’t just look out and support their own. Networks of care are formed along the root systems. They share information about what they need to survive. Through these systems the trees can share nutrients so they can all thrive and have a flourishing forest. The Redwoods’ ability to share resources and support each other, even during times of loss and devastation, are why they are still here after millions of years.

After a year that at times has felt too overwhelming to bear, this lesson from the redwoods is how I know we will continue to survive and thrive.

A few weeks ago I spent some time with the redwoods near where I live in Northern California. It was a particularly heavy news day and I needed some help holding the weight of everything I was feeling. I found a fairy ring that had nine trees and I humbly joined this family to complete their redwood minyan. I sat on the ground with my hands in the dirt on either side of me hoping to release some of the heaviness in my heart and absorb some of the strength from the trees around me. 

It was with this family of trees I was reminded of the many ways my communities are mirroring these miraculous beings. 

It is my own fairy ring that has helped me navigate the personal grief of the last year. In moments where I felt I would have to show up alone, it was made abundantly clear that I am not and I have family, both biological and chosen, that I can lean on. I’ve learned both how to ask for help when I need it and also to be open to accepting help when others want to generously give. I’ve learned these are actually two different practices. I am so grateful for the trees in my circle that have helped me continue to grow strong and proud, especially so I can continue doing the work I am so blessed to do supporting my communities and creating spaces of belonging. 

I am also moved by the ways our larger communities are showing up for each other. It is beyond incredible how from neighborhood to neighborhood, city to city, and state to state, people are supporting and protecting each other amidst state violence—mutual aid networks to ensure safety for immigrant neighbors, interfaith solidarity for trans youth, general strikes to defund ICE, relocation support to access healthcare. These are just some examples of our vast root systems, how we help each other get what we need.

The teachings of the rings and roots are the most critical for us to learn today from our leafy ancestors.

Being a tree doesn’t just mean individual strength. Being a tree means being part of a community, being vulnerable, holding each other up. Being a tree means collective power.

The trees show me how we must protect each other as fiercely as we can. We must help one another grow individually and collectively. We must share resources as often as we can. We must ask for what we need and be willing to receive care when it’s offered. I wish this meant we wouldn’t lose people in our community, but unfortunately we have lost far too many already. The trees tell me that when there is loss we hold the grief and despair together. We carry the legacy of all who came before us, and together we hope, dream, and build a better world. 

Suddenly the weight feels a little lighter. 

With my hands still in the dirt I took one final deep breath. I stood up and I hugged every one of those nine trees that let me be part of their family for a while. 

Thank you trees for your care. Thank you for holding me in my grief and for helping me breathe a bit easier. Thank you for continuing to be my guide and letting me learn from your ancient wisdom. And thank you once again for the reminder, to let us be like the trees.