The gate clangs shut as I turn right and follow the dirt path down into the field, ringed by the ghost of a fence. A very long time ago, the army pastured their horses here. Today, the oaks stand in various stages of life.
One is a teenager, not yet producing acorns. One is so tall that the kites use it as their lookout. And then there is the old one, flanked by two standing skeletons. This oak’s trunk is completely hollow, exposed to the light and the air like a cathedral without a roof. Yet high above, its branches spread into a full, mushroom-shaped canopy.
To stand by the hollowed shell gazing up at the leaves overhead is like standing by two trees. Yet they are one.
This is the Open Heart Oak.
I stand beside this giant, who has lived centuries more than I ever will, and I stare into its charred black-brown interior.
Something loosens deep inside my own chest. I breathe deeply and fully. Maybe the deepest I have all day.
I stand human with my feet in the mud and consider what it must be like to literally give your very heart to another.
I place my hand on my chest and let my own heart unfurl.
I connect with the oak and listen from within.
This is what it shares:
I give but my giving doesn’t cost me.
I give and because of how I give
I live more.
How can an oak give so much without giving itself away?
We think that a hollow tree is a tree that has lost something.
But an ancient Oak's decaying hollows are places where other lives begin.
Across Britain, native oaks support some 2,300 species of wildlife.
What appears to be the end of a life is full of life’s diversity.
Standing before this Oak, I wonder how many of us reach the end of the day having stepped into every role, met every demand and tended to everyone else's needs, only to feel depleted?
And how many of us feel more alive for having given so much?
Here is a distinction I don’t want to lose:
Giving that depletes us, and giving that makes us more alive,
are not the same thing.
Can I stand in the middle of my very human life and give without depleting myself?
Can you?
Earlier this week, I found myself in conversation with someone who knows me and my work very well.
She asked me, “Are you pulling the reality of the life you want closer? Or waiting to have something to step closer to that?”
The human part of me wanted to defend myself. Like aircraft waiting for take-off, a dozen perfectly reasonable explanations lined up in my head.
And then she said, “It seems to me that you are stealing your own joy.”
I had become so busy trying to build a life around the work I love that I was spending less time doing the very thing that makes me feel most alive.
Being with people. Holding space. Listening deeply. That moment when someone falls quiet, looks away for a second, and suddenly sees something in their life they couldn't see before.
I don't have to wait until everything is in place to live more of the life I'm creating.
I can begin now.
In honour of the Open Heart Oak, I’m making a commitment.
100 conversations in 100 days.
Why?
Because I want to practise being in service, not simply being of service.
Because I know what becomes possible when I meet someone in private conversation with openness, curiosity and presence. And I want more people to experience that.
Because I love doing it.
This is my way of living into what the Open Heart Oak means when it says:
I give and because of how I give, I live more.
I would love you to be part of this.
I'm offering 100 complimentary one-to-one conversations.
If you're curious about what might become possible through a conversation together, I'd love to welcome you.
If you've already experienced this work, perhaps there is someone you care about who would welcome it. Someone who might appreciate a little space to pause, explore and discover something new.
Please accept the invitation for yourself or pass it along.
Just send me an email, a text…or a carrier pigeon…with the words 100 conversations, and we'll find a time.
No charge. No obligation. Just an hour’s conversation to explore whatever is alive for you. It might be a question, a challenge or something you want to make possible.
The grey November light starts to fade.
I send a silent thank you into the hollow of this ancient tree and turn back toward home.
The gate squeals open.
I stand for a moment on its threshold and look back.