Wandering amongst the birch and spruce trees behind the cottage, I fell upon a little odd flower. A flower that stands out and is like no other. The more I studied and read about it, the more I realised how unique and magical this flower was.
I kept seeing it in my walks.
Poking up through the litter of brown leaves.
As if it were calling me.
I have to admit, with great shame, that my first instinct was that I should harvest it, make a tincture, and blog about it with lots of pretty photos.
Then I remembered.
I remembered what humans are, what we can do. How we love to objectify everything and to turn it into something it is not, especially something as pure as this.
So I shifted my thought process from “what can this being do for me” to “what can I do for this being?”
And so I sat with it. I say hello whenever I walk by. I check on it to make sure no one else has walked on it or harvested it.
And I say thank you.
Thank you for your silence. Thank you for your brightness. Thank you for your peace. Thank you for your sacredness.
by Adrienne Rich
There’s a place between two stands of trees
where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled
this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.