This year, on daily walks for my writing practice, I’ve become enthralled with trees in ways I never was before. I’ve been fortunate to have always lived near them, so I’ve appreciated them, even loved them. But I’m seeing them in new ways that are seeping into my writing now. Like this meditation on what they reveal about creative renewal….
Table of Contents
Lesson 1: Roots Before Branches
Before a tree ever reaches skyward, it gathers strength downward. Quietly and invisibly, the root system grows deep before a single branch stretches toward sunlight. As writers, we often make the mistake of trying to produce before we’ve nourished ourselves.
Reviving a writing practice isn’t about immediately sitting down and producing brilliant content. It’s about asking yourself: What am I reading? What am I noticing? What conversations am I having? These are the roots: the invisible foundation that makes meaningful writing possible.
Imagine if you tried to grow a tree by focusing entirely on the leaves. It wouldn’t work. The same logic applies here. Before writing a single word, spend time absorbing the world around you. Journal casually, read widely, and let curiosity nourish your roots. The branches—your actual writing—will follow naturally when the foundation is strong.
Lesson 2: Seasons Are Natural, and So Is Dormancy
Here’s something trees understand that we writers often forget: going quiet isn’t the same as giving up.
Every tree experiences winter. It pulls inward, conserves energy, and appears lifeless to the casual observer. But underneath that stillness, something important is happening: the tree isn’t broken, it’s preparing.
If your writing practice has gone cold, please hear this: you haven’t failed. You’ve simply entered a season. Life interrupts, in ways that overwhelm sometimes, as when losses happen and grief arrives. These aren’t signs that you’re not a writer — they’re signs that you’re a human being navigating something real.
The most freeing thing you can do is stop judging your winter. Instead, ask gently, what does spring look like for me? Maybe it’s five minutes of freewriting before coffee. Maybe it’s one honest sentence per day. Seasons turn, as they always do.
Lesson 3: Growth Happens in Rings
Inside any tree you’ll discover its entire history written in rings. Each layer represents a year of growth, some wider, some thinner, but all of them real and leaving their marks.
Your writing history works the same way. Everything you’ve ever written are rings, and those abandoned drafts, awkward blog posts and unfinished stories shaped you. They have value.
Reviving your practice doesn’t mean starting over. It means adding the next ring. You don’t need to be the writer you were five years ago. You just need to be the writer you are today, showing up honestly and adding one more layer to your story.
Your Writing Practice Is Alive
Trees don’t apologize for their seasons, doubt their roots, or compare their rings to other trees. They simply grow, steadily and faithfully, in their own time.
You can do the same. Your writing practice isn’t dead. It’s just waiting for a little sunlight, patience and faith that lasting growth is worth the wait for something beautiful to emerge.
The idea of adding the next ring instead of starting over is the part I keep thinking about, because so many of us treat an old draft or a quiet year like a mark against us. I also like that the roots are the reading and noticing nobody sees, since that is where every good post starts. Your advice to stop judging your winter is a good one for anyone coming back to the Ultimate Blog Challenge after a break. I’m looking forward to seeing what grows out of your walks this month.
Thanks for your thoughtful comments, Paul!