The Way of Things

When I first moved to the city, I had no place to scream.

The initial months dazzled me—the city buzzed with life and promised endless opportunities for adventure. But when the cold winds arrived, the four walls of our apartment closed in. I was suffocating and couldn’t scream if I wanted to. In the city, there is nowhere you can fall apart..

If you’re lucky, you can cry alone in your apartment—if you live alone or have a few hours before your housemates return. If your walls are too thin, people will worry about you, but most of them won’t mention it. Perhaps you can scream in your car—unless you have to ride the crowded bus home. But walk down the street with tears streaming, your face contorted with grief, and people will do one of three things: stare, avoid eye contact, or ask, “Are you okay?”

No, I’m not okay. But I know the answer you wanted to hear. Because if I tell you the truth—that I’m not okay, that I’m trapped and choking on every breath, that I feel myself falling apart along with everything around me, that the universe is spiraling out of control and no one seems to notice it but me—you won’t know what to say. And there is nothing to say. You won’t know what to do. And there is nothing to do. No, I’m not okay, but I don’t need anything but the space to fall apart in peace.

In the forest, you can scream.

The forest urges the release of every guttural, primal sound imprisoned inside you. No feeling is unwelcome. You can cry and scream and wail and sob like you did when you were a toddler. But the forest doesn’t demand you stop lest you face consequences for your emotions. It has a greater capacity to hold space than any human does. The forest doesn’t interrupt or stare. It doesn’t try to fix you or pretend you’re something you’re not. It simply wraps you in its quiet presence. 

When you’ve cried every last tear and screamed your throat raw, there is nothing but stillness—true stillness. Except for a squirrel rustling in the leaves, or the gentle creak of branches swaying in the wind. The forest hums an ancient hymn—the eternal rhythm of life. 

See how the brown leaves crumble into the earth? See how the trees bend to the wind? See how the seasons cycle with each rotation around the sun? See how death is essential to nourish the next generation of life?

Here, it is easier to remember the innate Oneness of all beings.

The energy you carry—the grief, the anger, the resentment—belongs to no one. It is infinite and ever-changing. It is meant to move through you, to be surrendered. The tighter you grip it, the more it hurts you. Only when you release can it begin to recycle and transform. This is the order of things.

There is the same order in the city.

We like to pretend that our skyscrapers and subway schedules separate us from nature. But nothing ever could. Our humanity—the rage, the sorrow, the desperation—doesn’t disappear just because we pave over the earth and line our lives with concrete walls. Slow your breath. Notice your heartbeat. Listen to the city singing its own rhythm: the honk of a horn, the laughter of children on a playground, the wind rushing between buildings. There is nothing to change, nowhere to go, and no one to be. Everything just is. This is the order of things.

It is the order that rules the forest and the city, the stars and the soil, every inhale and every exhale. Grasping to expectations is futile. The only constant is change. So release the bitterness, forgive yourself and others, and trust all is as it has ever been and will ever be. 

Knowing this in your head is easier than knowing it in your heart. Every act of letting go carries its own grief cycle. Releasing resentment does not absolve you of human emotion. Forgiveness does not excuse the atrocities committed. Trust does not negate all fear. But we can hold space for acceptance of these contradicting truths to exist at the same time, and leave room for new experiences to enter and change our minds.

It can feel inescapable, this human condition. But escaping isn’t the goal. There is nowhere to go. There is nothing to do. The forest bends to the storm, and so must we. So, release the scream, the tears, the weight—and allow it to transform. Allow each moment to rise and fall, decompose and grow again.

I still live in the city, and it holds my every scream.

From the Guides of the Hidden Realms Oracle