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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Faceless

I am a faceless wanderer passing by unknown. There are dimensions and planets inside of me that have yet to be born. I’m a color wheel glanced at from distances. There is energy in my existence that is a sinkhole of depression, apathy and ego bending.

I want out of this body and out of this place. I want to run away. I am stuck in thick mud. The spears would fly if I suddenly said farewell, goodbye; to, for once, live my own life. No desire to be caretaker, mother or wife.

I am dried out; wrung like a sponge; assessing escape routes; how to get out without the spears bleeding my skin from the inside until all that remains is a shell.

Hands held out for help, expected, enabled, the support table cracking at the legs, and in their hast to take, there will be silence when the legs finally break. Shattered wood goes back to earth quickly. It becomes dust and ash, disappearing until one day they will sit around musing, “She used to be the tallest tree.”

And my remnants will be what is burned in the fire pit. My mistakes will be their memories. My heart break will be the ghosts, an aching they will never know. So much whining about the trials of their life. You give me your childhood, and I’ll give mine. We’ll take measure of who really survived.

Years I spent, digging and clawing out words, hoping, just hoping to be heard. Even in that, there is no reprieve. Only the stark reality that is me; the knowing I must be alone in order to survive. I cannot be the foundation for anyone else’s life.

So I plan. I scheme. I prepare. To find a cave to call my own; a tender slice of home where there is no noise, the walls are mindful, the silence respects me, and I cease being a projection screen for the multitude of trivial screams.

Ghosts Of the Forest

“Ghosts Of the Forest” / acrylic on 11×14 canvas / artist Vennie Kocsis / 2015

While taking a walk in the woods on Monday, light patterns revealed faces and figures in the forest ground. Memories took on a mind of their own tonight as ghosts flowed from my soul. Letting them go with a brush, a canvas and a pen.

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