A Tree Standing Strong in the Mist of Toxic Whiteness

A tree standing tall in a toxic, white mist.

Once upon a time, in a beautiful forest, there stood a powerful tree. Her roots dug deep, her branches stretched high, and her trunk grew strong, forged by years of weathering storms. The tree has stood in this forest for many seasons—facing endless winters, blistering heat, and all manner of challenges that would test her resilience. And, as the years passed, this tree grew weary.

One November day, a toxic, white mist swept across the forest, casting a shadow that felt heavy and unyielding. This white mist carried with it an oh-so-familiar chill, a hostile weight that made the tree ache from her trunk to her roots. She could feel it deep within her fibres; this white mist was all consuming in its oppression.

The tree felt utterly alone as she tried to remember a time when the white mist was benevolent. She was hard pressed, stirring within a great need to gather with the other trees; her friends who had shared the earth with her since the beginning. But the thought of pushing through the white mist, of exposing herself to the cold, toxic whiteness felt too daunting. The tree felt hollow, her strength thinning like autumn leaves falling to the forest floor. She leaned on her roots for stability, grounding herself in familiar soil, but still the white mist bullied her with taunts of making the forest great again.

Then, as if by fate, a message traveled through familial roots and soil, reaching the tree in the form of a whisper. ‘Come to the grove by the lake.’ It was to be an unapologetic gathering of ancient and young trees alike, a place where each tree could stand tall, their trunks thick with the stories of their ancesters, their branches reaching high in defiance of the white mist that sought to destroy them. This invitation was a lifeline.

So, the tree drew from her last reserves, preparing to embark on a journey she had traveled many times before but now found strangely daunting. Each root and limb moved forward, yet she found herself disoriented, her sense of direction slipping. She drifted from path to path, missing turns and having to backtrack as the white mist played tricks on her vision. But still, she pressed on.

At a crossroad, she encountered an elder tree, bent and knotted from seasons of storms but still deeply rooted with quiet dignity. The old tree swayed slowly, her branches creaking with the weight of time. Their eyes met, and in that moment, they both recognized the familiar heaviness they bore. There was no need for words—the silence spoke volumes, an understanding rooted in a shared struggle. They continued on together towards community.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the trees reached the grove by the lake. The sight filled their branches with a sense of renewal; here stood trees of every shape and size, all bound together by roots woven deep in a shared soil. The white mist was losing its power, unable to choke the light and warmth radiating from the grove. The trees formed a circle, their branches entwined, and together they swayed, their leaves whispering to one another in a rhythm as old as time. In their united front, the white mist had to retreat, spreading lies in its wake, as the trees’ song of freedom echoed from their roots resonating throughout the forest and beyond. ‘We shall not be moved.’

During this sacred communion the tree felt herself grow taller, her branches reaching higher. The white mist had tried to make her small, to drain her strength, but within this grove of the familia, she felt her trunk thicken, her roots grow stronger as they shared stories of resilience, each voice weaving a tapestry of survival and joy, a reminder that there is power in gathering and deeply rooting, in refusing to yield to the white mist.

When the tree finally returned to her own place in the forest, she felt her roots sink a little deeper into the earth connecting to all the trees in the forest. She knew the white mist would return, and that the forest would continue to be a target for it, yet she no longer felt weary. She was resolved to let her voice ring throughout the forest and beyond, a beacon for others who might find themselves lost in the wilderness of toxic whiteness. In her roots, she carried the promise of community, and in her branches, she held the wisdom of generations.

And when the white mist returned, thick and cold spouting the same old rhetoric, the tree whispered to herself, “Do not grow weary in well-doing,” knowing that, like her ancestors before her, she would stand tall with deep roots and endure.

Writer’s note: You are either the tree or the toxic whiteness in this story. Get in where you fit in on the spectrum by owning up to your complicity and moving away from the status quo of society into the open arms of community.