Wednesday, December 28, 2011


12/22 -


The magnificent trees, a week before the logging.

A place of shelter and beauty.


The sound of the machines wakes me at 7 and I am immediately saddened again to face another day of devastating loss.  I dress quickly and walk down into the woods, hearing trees smashing down up above and screaming out once again.  I wail in disbelief that this is happening, and try vainly to pray again for the trees.  I fall short.
A gravel truck comes across the meadow by my neighbor’s home and I watch as they make a roadway for the log trucks that will be coming soon to haul away the trees that have lined my morning walks for all these years.
I cry, I yell out, I cry again.  There is no stopping this nightmare.  I hear the neighbor’s three dogs on the trail and know they are near.  I cannot stand to see them, knowing I will surely say something cruel from the deep well of my anger and pain.  I disappear up into the woods above the meadow, hiding in the trees of my own land, the ones that will never come down like this as long as I live here.
I watch them, trying to understand how two good people do such things, take away these beings from the woods, from our home, from the world.  They stop by a stand of incredible elders and I can’t see them for awhile.  In a bit they walk back up the trail to their home and I am torn, like the trees, impossible to comprehend this decision, their choices.
I go to the Grandfather again, with my anger, with my bitterness and heartbreak as trees still fall above, and He reminds me that “It is about the trees, not these people.”  I have looked to Him to “straighten my spine” as we were taught in the Native American rounds where I studied indigenous ways many years ago.  I have learned since that trees are the great teachers of standing tall, rooted in the midst of storms, bending when needed.  Returning to earth when their time has come, they are home to the next generation, circling round to become the rich loam of the forest floor.


I walk back down along the trail, intent on prayers, and discover that my neighbors have tied bright red tape around the two trees they had offered to let stay when they felt my sadness at the impending logging.  There is more red tape, saving them from logging, around three beauties from that marvelous old stand.  They left a red Christmas bow on one tree, a gift for the forest, a gift for me?  The world is not so black and white, and in the midst of it all, I see them a little more clearly and offer a prayer for their family, for their suffering, as the trees come down around them.
I walk farther down into the woods and discover a tree laying across the trail, a solid 70 year old fir, stripped bare and naked.  I lay down on her, praying, thanking her, still, with her.  I notice an old growth stump nearby serving as a nurse log to another fir, her child, maybe her grandchild, near 50 years old herself.  I remember the many generations who have lived here before, who will live here again.
Walking farther along the trail I sing the words to Libby Roderick’s song “How could anyone ever tell you you were anything less than beautiful, how could anyone ever tell you you were less than whole?  How could anyone fail to notice that your loving is a miracle, how deeply you’re connected to my soul,”  still crying, still praying, wishing them well.  Such deep, deep gratitude for the years I have loved them and lived in their presence.  They have been my steady friends.  I am blessed.

2 comments:

  1. you could either offer them money to keep the trees standing, or if you can't afford that, figure out a connection to a land trust for them. sad for the situation, thanks for caring so much!

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  2. Oh Nan, I feel your sadness and loss. Beautifully written, thank you. I love you for this piece, and many other reasons... MJ

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