Ivy Jones

I had the privilege of working with Ivy. Ivy was a wonderful talent and a better person. Ivy was always so thoughtful and kind. I am so sorry for your loss. The world has lost a beautiful soul.

My heart is broken as I read this. Ivy was a wonderful, gentle soul. Autumn, please know I love you and I am praying for you. I can’t even imagine what you are going through. I wish I could support you. I just had back surgery. But please know that my spirit will be there with you.

My kids used to tease me about always giving them so many lectures. One day as I was about to tell a long life lesson to the kids, I apologized to them first and said “I’m sorry for giving you so many lectures.” Sweet little Autumn, wanting to make her Dad feel better, piped up and proclaimed, “Dad, you don’t give us lectures….. they’re speeches!” Today I’d like to tell a little story to my children, and give a speech to everyone else. When Forrest was born, I named him “Forrest” for 2 reasons. One, because I had two separate friends with middle names Forrest that loved their middle names more than their first names, so they always went by Forrest because it was such a cool name. And secondly, because I loved the outdoors. Some of my favorite memories of childhood were backpacking in the Uintahs with my dad. Long days on the trail. Quiet mornings fishing on the mountain lake. That feeling that if you just kept walking, eventually things would make sense. The forest was where I learned who I was, my strength, and my sense of self, and without really thinking about it, I assumed that was something I could pass down intact to my children. When Forrest was born, it felt natural to give him a name rooted in that world. I imagined him growing tall and strong, moving through forests the way I had, finding himself in wide spaces and long miles. I had a picture in my head of the life we would share. And here’s something I’ll admit— I was very good at holding onto that picture. When Forrest was young, I became a scoutmaster. I took him on dozens of hikes and camping trips. He never really loved it—but I told myself he would grow into it. The way I had. Because that’s what forests teach you, right? Endurance. Toughness. Keep moving forward. What I didn’t understand yet was that love can quietly turn into expectation if you’re not careful. His last and final hike was the Zion Narrows. There had been a flash flood a few days before. The water was high and muddy. I couldn’t be there on that trip— so I was at home, holding a beautiful image in my head of what it must be like. The images from my own experiences hiking that canyon. Majestic towering canyon walls. Flowing water. Boys playing and laughing their way through an unforgettable adventure. I thought they’d love it! When the leaders dropped him off at home, he rang the doorbell so I could let him in the house. I was so excited to hear all about his adventure. I will never forget what I saw when I opened the door. He stood there frozen on the front porch. Completely covered from head to toe in thick caked-on dried out mud. His face was sullen and his eyes were empty. What I later learned was the river was so muddy and high the boys couldn’t see as they were hiking down the river, stepping on moss covered rocks and boulders under the water, twisting ankles and knees, fearing for their safety. Every single moment of that trip had been nothing more than a grueling struggle to take the next step. But before I knew all this, I shouted with joy to see him home and in a sing-song voice asked “Soooo… how was the trip?”, excited to hear all about it. He stood there silent. Stared at me. And then broke down crying and crying and couldn’t stop crying. Eventually when he caught his breath he told me he never wanted to go camping or hiking again. And just to be clear—he meant never. That was his very last outdoor adventure. That was the end of hiking. The end of scouting. The end of the mountains and forest I thought we were sharing. At the time, it felt like something had been lost. Like a door had closed. What I didn’t understand then was that it wasn’t an ending. It was a truth. Years later, Forrest transitioned and chose the name Ivy. At first, I didn’t know what to do with that. Forrest was a name tied to trees—tall, rooted, expected to grow a certain way. Ivy felt different. Softer. Quieter. It took me time—longer than I wish—to understand how deeply connected those names actually were. There are some things about ivy that matter here. Ivy and life: • Ivy is evergreen. It does not die back in winter the way many forest trees do. • It represents continuity, persistence, and quiet endurance. • Unlike trees, ivy doesn’t dominate space—it adapts to it. Ivy and change: • Ivy changes the surfaces it grows on. It softens stone, reshapes walls, reclaims ruins. • It does not grow straight up; it finds its own path, attaching where it can, letting go where it must. • Ivy thrives in shade. It is, quite literally, an introvert plant. Ivy and death: • Historically, ivy has been associated with mourning and remembrance. • In graveyards, ivy symbolizes life continuing after death—memory that doesn’t fade. • It outlives what it climbs. Walls crumble. Ivy remains. There is something profoundly fitting about a child named Forrest—rooted, tall, expected to grow a certain way—becoming Ivy. A plant that survives without following the forest’s rules. That does not grow the way its parent plants do. That is still unmistakably alive. This story is not about rejection. Not of me. Not of nature. Not of love. It’s about translation. I gave my child: • a name connected to nature • a love of the outdoors • a vision of who I thought they might be My child gave me back: • a new name, still organic • a different relationship to space and survival • a gentler, quieter form of belonging Forests are rigid places that you move through, Ivy is an adaptive place you rest against. And that’s who Ivy was. She became a place. A place people could go. A place with calm, snacks, quiet, and gentle presence. A place where you didn’t have to perform or explain yourself. Where you could just be yourself. Where you could just simple exist. Where you could BE. She didn’t push into the world. She made room within it. And made room for others. She was the introvert’s introvert. I thought I had passed down the forest. What she carried forward was ivy—still living, still connected, still shaped by what came before, but growing in a way that finally fit her body, her nervous system, her soul. Parents plant seeds. Children decide how they grow. That’s not failure. That’s family heritage and lineage doing exactly what it’s supposed to do. Ivy didn’t abandon what I gave her. She transformed it. And in learning to see that—really see it—I learned something too. About love. About letting go. About the quiet ways life continues, even when it breaks your heart. Walls crumble. Ivy remains.