Nature Tells Stories

Nature tells stories. It is alive with the history and human conversations which pass through it. Nature is its own sculptor. As I walked today, we fell into a deep conversation.

This beautiful woman, so playful and happy, held a wreath on her wrist as she danced with the wind.

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Gleeful children frolicked around the pond reminding me to pay attention to my inner child.

The water dancer held inside of her the power of the streams, moving her hips with their flow and always in perfectly synced movement.

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Mr. Mallard and I talked for a while. His wife was off picking up the fish for dinner. He’s been around for 7 years now, he shares. An older gentlemen, he had quite the charm. He was even flirting a bit. I went on my way before Mrs. Mallard returned. I certainly didn’t want to deal with a duck kerfuffle.

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I gathered maple leaves as an idea emerged for a page in my current art WIP. Their colors blend beautifully.

This tree told me he has been there for 124 years. He spoke of friends who had died during the clearing process. He still speaks with them telepathically still today. One, he said, is having a wondrous life cycle as a whale, and has many tales to tell. I thought how endearing they remained in contact, thanked him for sharing and walked on.

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I asked this tree why he looks so sad. He said he’s been living in the park for 70 years, and in the latter ones had seen too much. Once, right at his feet, a woman’s mouth was covered while a man took from her without her consent, violently and brutally.

“If you knew what we see at night when all the joggers and walkers are safe at home, you would know,” he said as he hung his head.

I do know the period of time when this park was called Rape Park, and no woman dared walk through it at night. Wright Park is still shrouded with the many violations which have left a permanent shadow on its history.

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As I listened to the tree’s lamentations, I glanced down to find a little squirrel right there at my feet gazing up at me. I said hello and he replied with a hind quarter scratch as he scampered off to gather more bits.

As I was ready to wrap up my walk, I was stopped by a tree horse. I’d never met one before, and I found it to be peaceful.

“You have kind eyes,” I complimented.

Mr. Tree Horse is 115. He said he has heard it all, even miles beyond the park. He spoke of night dream travel, how he falls into deep slumber for days, visiting his home dimensions.

“It must be difficult being a tree, standing there day after day, weathering the seasons and changing wind,” I said.

Mr. Tree Horse smiled.

“It isn’t difficult. It’s cyclical. We choose to be here, providing life and breath. It is an honor we trees take seriously. We know we may be expired, then used for fires and homes, things that have nothing to do with us, after all, even our roots, left headless in the ground, become a continuing part of life. So, sister, we never really die.”.”

I was humbled by the nonchalant way he gave of himself, understanding dream cycles and inner dimensional travel. I finished my walk pondering the wisdom of the trees, the crisp coldness of the breeze and a mind full of their stories.