From Grief to Grace: A Glimpse into "A Tree with My Name on It"

An exclusive excerpt from my dear friend Victress Hitchcock’s moving new memoir, where loss transforms into deeper self-trust and connection

Three years ago filmmaker and poet Victress Hitchcock, or Vicky as I know her, reached out for guidance as she embarked on her memoir journey. Already a successful filmmaker, poet, teacher, and devoted Buddhist who had studied with the legendary meditation master Trungpa Rinpoche, her writing was steeped in poetic beauty. She needed a touch of memoir craft to transform that poetry into prose and someone to witness her process, standing beside her as she shaped her story. I didn't need to do much beyond helping her stay on course, but in that time, a deep friendship blossomed. I even spent a month at her home in Crestone while working on Into the Soul of the World, and through it all, I've had the privilege of watching her bring this profoundly moving book to life.

Today, I want to share how beautiful I find A Tree with My Name on It: Finding a Way Home. I'm immensely proud of Vicky, her persistence, and the way she

opened her heart on the page. And I'm grateful for the friendship we've built along the way.

The following excerpt takes place in the third act. Vicky's husband, Joe, has left the ranch—the dream property they'd bought together as empty nesters. But the isolation, their karma, and perhaps the valley itself had other plans for their marriage. This scene unfolds as Vicky, who is suffering from PTSD from past abuse, begins to accept the loss and trust herself more deeply, finding a profound connection with her own heart. I hope you enjoy it and that you will purchase the book. Here’s a link.

Excerpt:

The snow had stopped falling. From my office window, I could see a thick blanket of hard-crusted snow covering the hillside and trees, the whole valley glistening in brilliant sunlight. I needed to get out of the house. I needed fresh air. I didn't care if it was ten degrees outside. I decided to plow the driveway. It would be my maiden voyage.

The truck with the plow was parked next to the house, facing outward. I trudged out, snow up to my knees, and after what seemed like hours scraping and

brushing the snow off the windshield, I climbed aboard. It took an anxious few moments before the ignition caught and a few more freezing minutes to warm up the engine. I was ready to roll. I was feeling good, the air sparkling with a mist of swirling snow, the trusty engine chugging under me. I took off. Slowly. I turned on the windshield wipers and peered up the driveway. It seemed longer and steeper than I remembered. I felt a moment of panic, but I took a deep breath and powered forward.

As I headed up, the snow flying off to the sides, I was feeling almost cocky. And then, just as we hit the steepest part of the driveway, the truck crapped out. Right away I was hot and swearing. "Shit, fuck, no, no, no!" I yelled while I flipped it into neutral and slid back down the hill. At the bottom, I threw on the emergency brake, cranked the key, pumping furiously on the gas. Off we went again, and once again it died, at the very same spot. I started swearing again, pounding the wheel. "What the fuck? You can't do this to me."

Suddenly I felt my mind zoom back, and I saw the whole picture from a distance. Me, stranded in the middle of a very long driveway, in three feet of snow, yelling at a truck that wasn't doing what I wanted.

I needed to "change my attitude and relax as it is." I took a deep breath. Relax. I sat back and watched a load of snow cascade off a spruce tree across the road. As it is.

Out of the blue, I was visited by an image of finding myself in the same situation a week before with Rain. We were in the arena at Rancho Loco, and I was struggling to get him to lope. He didn't want to. Each time I asked, he would half-heartedly lope a couple of paces and then sputter back into a ragged trot. Right away, I lost my seat, my legs stiffened, my back constricted, my breath became shallow. Frustrated, I kicked him and he broke into a faster, jerkier, trot. Then itsuddenly occurred to me that I was the one at fault. Whatever it was I was doing was making it impossible for Rain to keep cantering. I didn't trust that he would do what I asked him to do, and I was trying to force him. Sure enough, when I relaxed and let him do his part, everything went smoothly.

"Okay, I know you're not a horse," I said to my truck, "but I trust that you can do this. I've seen you do it. So, I'm just going to relax and let you do your job." I took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over on the first try, we were off and running, and we plowed all the way to the top.

"Yes!" I shouted, pumping my fist in the air, and then I effortlessly shifted into reverse, backed up just enough to turn, and drove back down the driveway. Mission accomplished. It was all good.

Copyright: Victress Hitchcock