The tree has stood here for generations. Its wrinkled features speak of Springs and hot Summers and Winter storms and Fall Hurricanes rolling out of the Sea.
Yet here it stands. Right where the mountain man had stopped over 300 years before, and leaning on his staff he paused to look out to the Sea beyond the valley – and he has stayed here – still thinking. His hand clutches the shaft of his staff. You can see his fingertips curling around from the back of the shaft as he rests his temple against his hand. His hair is blown upwards and back as he stares stonily out towards the distant Sea.
The years have washed soil and stones and leaves out of the hills above so that the man’s shoulders and torso and hips and legs are now buried deep below. Yet still he stands and looks outward and wonders. When he decides, will he rise up and tear his roots from deep within the earth and walk these hills again?
These are tales of the deep woods.
The young man pushed out by his tribe,
Walked toward the sound of the Sea.
He crossed mountain peak and fast glacial stream.
He forded broad rivers.
He climbed stones as if they were steps to the top of the ridge.
And from his new vantage point he could see the great Sea before him.
He leaned his head on his staff and he wept, because he had found Ocean, his mother.
What would he say to her when she saw him and rose up? Would she be in a fury? Would she rejoice that he had found his way back to her?
He leaned on his staff, for a year, and another, and another ten and then a hundred and then more.
He stands there still wondering how he will be greeted when he reaches the rolling wave and the murmur of shale rolling in the retreating wave.
What will he say that he has accomplished? Who will he say that he has helped? Has he made his path a better place? Has the world benefited from his life?
He leaps up and leaves his body behind, still, standing, staring.
His spirit goes out and back along his path to correct what he has damaged.
When he sees a tired person sitting next to the road, the wind blows down and refreshes the weary. The rain falls upon the parched . The sun shines on the lonely.
The young man in the wind and rain and sunshine is rebuilding his story.
And he will smile.
One day he will return to this tree and shake loose the binding roots and finish his walk to the Sea and be greeted with joy.
This is one of the trees that I remember. There are many others. These are the trees I see while I am in the woods. They speak to me as the warm spring rains patter down on their budding branches. When the Summer storm whips the limbs and branches, they howl with strength. When the Winter winds bring snow and ice that crackles on the branches when the sun returns and when I cross the snowy field to visit them, they moan and creak like an old gate on rusted hinges.. The trees are always with me, they are everywhere. They are of many ages, and they always welcome me to the deep forest and woods by the lane.
Some have forgotten how to leaf and bud and leaf, but still stand as a home for birds and squirrels and the members of the fourth kingdom, the fungus that returns the tree to the soil. Some have fallen in the wind. Some have fallen to the ax. But they all live on in my memory and in the memory of all who visited them and touched their bark, or played in their shade, or picked up their Fall leaf form the ground. Or watched a bird fly among its branches.
They are our friends. Each has its story. You must listen to hear it being told.
Copyright (c) Albert Johnson 2021