Remember when you learned to tie your shoes? Or when your children did? How long it took to learn all the loops and over and unders and pulling it tight and even? How it took concentration and practice and patience and determination? A plethora of life lessons in the learning of a simple task.

We planned an after-work hike this week. Our destination was the mesmerizing pine forest that has a way of lifting our spirits into the treetops and grounding our feet into the carpet of pungent pine needles. I was surprised to see snow on the ground when we got there, though I shouldn’t have been—the temperatures had stayed below freezing all week since the scattered snowfall.

As we neared the bridge, I noticed a beaver dam—straight and expertly pieced together with the chewed-off logs and sticks. Wouldn’t it seem like quite the impossible task for a little beaver to be standing with stick in mouth surveying the river before him? (The lodge is on the edge of the bank in the upper left corner of the photo.)

As much as we wanted to ‘get away’ from the stresses plaguing us, we still needed to figure some things out, so resolutely began our discussion as we walked. It quickly fell apart as Chris brought up a hot button issue prefaced with “You’re not going to like this, but…” I should say, I fell apart—my hackles raised in defense, I stopped in my tracks—like I couldn’t think and talk and walk at the same time. That wound that had scabbed over and re-opened time and time again. My voice raised in pitch and volume and intensity. (As much as I try to be reasonable about this, at this time in my life I don’t have the bandwidth to be very reasonable.) We tried to talk about it a little more, but my stomach and chest were tightening. I stopped again and said, “I came here to untie the knots in my insides, not to make more.”

So we walked on in silence, and the trees began to loosen my tightness. I thought about knots, these knots in my stomach, how I work every day to ease them—and yet here they are again.

And when we got to the Pines, I realized I was surrounded by knots. Every branch of every tree becomes a knot in the wood.

With the self-pruning Red Pines, the knots are more obvious as the lower branches fall off and the darkened scar or knot is left behind.

We walked on a trail that we hadn’t been on before, and we found a small, three-sided log shelter. I sat on the log bench with my back against the back wall of logs and looked out at the forest. An orange glow of Oak leaves shone through the branch-bare trunks of the near Pines.

I studied the structure around me—the knotty log walls, the knotty ceiling planks, the less-knotty heartwood timbers. I guess we’re all made of knots.

Without growth, we wouldn’t have the branches and wouldn’t have the knots.

The sun was getting low in the sky as we walked the snowy, leaf-strewn trails back towards the car, and the woods got darker.

The moon was shining over Warner Lake in the dark blue sky over the dark blue water with relief and reflections of black silhouetted trees and branches. I breathed a sigh of untying

We begin our lives by learning to tie the knots—we grow and develop, sending out branches of discovery. We tie the knots of relationships—family, friendships, and marriage. We tie the knots of learning by piecing together facts and making connections. Looking back now, that part seems easy.

Have you ever stood in a lumber yard selecting boards for a project? I was taught to choose the boards with the least knots. The knots are hard to nail through and often weaken the wood. As the tree grows and gets older, there is more heartwood with less knots. As we grow and get older, we learn the loops of life, we practice the overs and unders, and we begin to untie some of the knots that no longer serve us, especially those that form in our insides as we stand before a seemingly impossible task or unwanted situation. We’re all made of knots—hard, curled places that often make us feel weak—like my old wounds that make me unreasonable at times. But I’m thankful for the trees, the forest, and the Pines that help untie the knots inside me, and I’m thankful that I’m building heartwood.