Last week before the temps skyrocketed past 100 degrees in Phoenix, Steve and I headed north to Sedona to hike. We rose early for three days and scaled a couple of summits. Not huge summits. I am a wimp of a hiker, but the red rocks inspire me to find my way. Climbing up Sugar Loaf Summit, I talked with a local hiker who told me that Walt Disney had lived in the area and that the twisted juniper trees scattered across the landscape had inspired his creation of the trees in the movie Fantasia.

While I relished this story, I could not verify it. Still — that did not stop me from being completely smitten with the long, twisted, gnarly branches of the juniper tree. I kept snapping endless photos and falling behind on our trek. As I age, I have noticed I seem to be more connected to bits and pieces of nature — rocks, birds, and now a tree

Later that week when I returned to the valley and taught writing at Mayo, I was sad to learn that Elizabeth could no longer write. She stayed behind after group and told me she believed her arthritis had recently stripped her fingers of the movements needed to form words. She did not seem overly bothered. “I am aging, and perhaps I had a mini stroke,” she whispered to me. Then she held out her weather-worn hands and showed me the bony knobs.

She took my hands in hers. In that moment, I realized of late she had often sat in a meditative trance with eyes shut as the other writers in our group scrawled in their journals. “And still — you keep coming.” My words were both a statement and a question.

She beamed. “Oh, yes. I believe more than ever that telling our story and finding our words matters. Even when your fingers become oddly twisted, you must write your story. Even if it is only a story written in your head.” And her wisdom flooded me with joy. Here in the presence of other writers, Elizabeth comes to hear their stories and to find her stories. Perhaps she can no longer lift a pen, but she lifts her heart.

As we compile our words on paper, Elizabeth sifts through decades of memories. When we share our stories, she shares hers. Her narrative is one of illness and aging and learning to face it with surprise, wonder, and grace. Often her words leave us silent. In awe.

The juniper is a strong tree that can live to be a thousand years old, surviving the baking heat of a summer and the bone-chilling cold of winter. And now as I look at my pictures of junipers, I notice the photo of Elizabeth standing in front of the writing group. You cannot see her twisted fingers. But like the juniper branches they are beautiful. For she, too, is resilient and strong.

Interested in more stories? Check out my book The Story You Need to Tell.