12/29 -

I listen to the album “Walella” this morning, a remarkable collection of Cherokee songs my friend and writing mentor, Cindy, gave me last night.

It is perfect timing, a lovely gift, and I am reminded once again to ground and pray, as so many have before us, as so many will when we are gone.  It is beautiful music and settles my heart as I ready to go into the woods again today.

I am not in the same state of shock as I was on previous days, more of a deeply sad resignation.  I re-commit to be there for the trees and walk down to the sound of a chain saw this time.

They have started clear-cutting all of the maple trees down near Little Cedar Creek.  They lay in a pile, littered like white lincoln logs, and shatter when the next tree lands on top of them - so incredibly disrespectful.  Only this fall they were a canopy of gold, now they lie like matchsticks.  I hear the giant firs fall too, they are taking everything.

It is steep where they are clear cutting, and all of the torn up earth is muddy and slick, probably why the red and white machine stays on top today, taking trees near my neighbor’s home.  

I walk into the meadow and see smoke rising from their chimney - incredibly ironic.  I try to imagine how they can sit inside the horrendous shambles they are making of the woods.  I trusted them to come live here as good neighbors, as care-takers of the sacred trees.  They have betrayed that trust.  Doing good work for humankind is not separate from caring for the earth around us, they are connected.  This slaughter of the forest harms us all.

I shoot pictures of the downed trees and broken branches lying across the well-worn padded trail of my many mornings here among these friends, so many gone now, the trail unrecognizable.

I “straighten my spine” again and pray for the ones left standing, lonely for their brothers and sisters, for the ones whose bodies lie in piles, waiting for the lumber mill.  I pray for all of their spirits.  The maples crash below, the wise old firs fall nearby, and I will miss them, all of them my friends for years.  

I hope I learn more of the blessing it is to stay connected to spirits gone before us.  I know it is crucial as our parents age and pass, when our dearest friends fight off cancer and we face the possible early death of loved ones.  I need to trust that we are still with each other when our bodies fail and fall.  Once again, the trees will be my teachers.

I come home and pick up a shovel.  I want to take care of something, to love the land in some small way.  I shovel gravel into holes in the driveway, it is raining again and holes suddenly appear in the midst of downpours.  I pick up wind blown branches in the yard, so different form the littered forest below.  It isn’t much, but it is something, some way to love it here in the midst of the onslaught, in the middle of this heartless storm.