It’s that time of year when snakes emerge from their hiding spots to bask in the sun on the road. Inevitably, every walk I take elicits a gasp from the primal depths of my body, evolved to recoil at anything that slithers. To be clear, I like snakes; it’s just their movement that catches me off guard. Their ropey undulating like a dull cord infused with life gets me EVERY TIME.
Despite my inbuilt fear, whenever I spy a garter snake in the weeds or smack in the middle of a path, it feels like a token of change and good things to come. What other creature outgrows itself so entirely time and again? It’s something I admire about snakes and often try to emulate: how readily they let go of that which no longer serves them. How willingly they dispense with their old stale form, leaving it behind for insects to devour or birds to lace into nests.
Behind my knee sits a varicose vein loosely squiggled like a river or snake in motion. Most of the time, I forget it’s there; I’ve had it forever, and it doesn’t really bother me. But occasionally, I’ll catch a glimpse of it or run my fingers over where the vein bulges out and experience a surge of panic. Here is this thing that many people consider unsightly, contorting itself inside my leg. It is a tiny thing in a world of things, but one I’ve been conditioned to squirm from.
This response admittedly feels silly until I factor in all the relentless, insidious ways women have been instructed and pressured for centuries and from youth to obsess over their appearance and adjust, tame, and shame it accordingly. Like my fear of snakes, my fear of being ugly or perceived as ugly is deep-rooted. If I could wave a magic wand, I would not, surprisingly, alter the way I look but rather erase this programmed thinking from my brain.
Alas, I have no magic wand, so instead, I must actively challenge this conditioning by looking all my real or imagined uglinesses directly in the eye and allowing them space to be. I must appreciate them not for any beauty they contain (although I would argue that they do) but for the wonders they innately are. My uglinesses are tangible proof I am alive and not a cyborg, doll, or immaculate being whose existence depends upon perfection or the guise of it. My uglinesses signify truth, and the truth is that I am exceedingly human, fragile, and doing my best to survive with the limited knowledge and resources I have.
Often, I’m struck by how cumbersome it feels to be alive. Even with the privileges my body affords me, it’s still so damn hard and painful. So often, I long to shed my physical form like a snake sheds its skin and experience life as a bubble or cloud of light particles. If only for a little while, I’d like to hover above the earth, immune to “the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.”
Then again, my body is the vessel through which it’s possible to experience all sights, sounds, and other earthly marvels. I get to put my hands in the dirt, be thrilled by snakes, sing, kiss, and cut an apple in perfect quarters, two for you, two for me. Here, I get to sit in a canoe at sunset and sense the lake supporting us and all the life within it, moving slowly through space. I get to see your face, and yours, and yours, without an ounce of ugliness I can detect, though I’m sure it’s there or will be one day, and that’s okay. That’s good! In an age when so much is increasingly artificial, it’s a balm to behold something real.
Before I get to the angels, I want to reflect on beauty, or what I consider true beauty. The topic feels weirdly ticklish, if only because we live in a hyper-visual world. Every day, we’re bombarded with images quietly (or not so quietly) telling us what is and isn’t beautiful, what things should and shouldn’t look like, whether it’s our bodies, homes, or even our art.
In truth, beauty is inherent. It’s like air. Everywhere you go, beauty rushes to greet you. It’s not something obtainable via a product or procedure but a quality akin to spirit. You know when beauty is present because you can feel it. You feel lighter and inspired by proximity. Awe-stricken. Whether it’s an honest performance or a patch of grass rippling in the wind. A spark of recognition ignites within you because you know, you know, beauty exists there, too.
True beauty is spacious enough to contain ugliness (by popular standards), whereas true ugliness lacks kindness, grace, and soul. I sense this whenever someone displays intolerance or is intentionally cruel or dismissive to something seemingly lower than them, like an animal or child. Exploiting something for profit is truly ugly, too.
True beauty is the only beauty I'm interested in. Not the kind that promises salvation, or promotes salivation, but the one that falls trying to fly, chips a tooth, and still comes up smiling. The kind of beauty that weathers and ages because it’s allowed to. Because it must to survive.
That’s my two cents on beauty.
Now, on to the angels.
Last month, while walking through the woods, I stumbled upon an Angel Tree. This is the same woods where, in the past, I’ve found a dinosaur friend, a quilted heart, pencils with GOD emblazoned on them, copious woodland creatures, and now an Angel Tree.
The tree, which is partially hollowed out, was adorned with angel figurines and had this message attached to it:
ANGEL TREE
Angels are always among us.
There are earth angels, deceased loved ones that are now angels, and angels that have never been in a human body.
Angels will help with any problem IF ASKED, but you must leave the problem with them. They don’t help with any problems that aren’t released to them as they will always honor your free will. If you are hanging onto a problem, they will let you hang onto it. Release it to them and watch for magical solutions.
This angel tree has been dedicated to you, the angels, and miracle solutions.
I stood in the stillness of the tree, mulling over which problem to release. Physical, emotional, spiritual—I had so many to pick from. Eventually, I decided on one, knowing I could always liberate the others at a later time.
I closed my eyes. Breathed. When I opened them, I felt the same. But also grateful for the invisible forces behind the Angel Tree, whoever they may be.
Cautiously, I stepped inside the tree’s opening and stooped to inspect the ground. Layers of bark debris, dirt, and spider webs coalesced like the entrance to a haunted maze. I let my eyes drift and then gasped, pulse surging. Before me was a snakeskin, only a few inches long, wilted as ash. Spirit returning to my body, I picked up the snakeskin and laid it across my palm. It weighed next to nothing, and even though I knew it’d been discarded for a reason, I feared ruining it by touching it too much.
For a moment, I considered rehoming it like many of my found objects, arranging it in a still life or display. Then, the thought occurred to me: maybe the snake, too, had conversed with the angels and left its skin behind in exchange for their help. Or perhaps its problem had been needing to shed its skin, and within the base of the Angel Tree, it could finally let go.
Like so many things, I can never know. But I do know once I set the snakeskin down and left the tree and the angels behind me, I felt lighter, more buoyant in step. ✶
Al, sincerest thanks, I whispered “yes” aloud, over and over, throughout, nodding rhythmically. I so loved you snake observations, I adore snakes, alongside my fear of them, they are gorgeous, powerful, knowing creatures. I too take great inspiration at their ability to let it go...
Thank you for your beautiful and necessary remarks on beauty--if one cannot see beauty it speaks only to a lack of imagination. Working with very elderly, and dying, people has been a gift to my eye as I see it so, so clearly now. In every body. Beauty is rich in the miraculous (and it’s all miraculous).
Blessings to your tree, your angels, and to whatever you handed over. I love that you considered why the snake had chosen there. ♥️
Always such a joy to read your essays. Beautiful, Al!