Addendum: Sing Again

Response to feedback from my blog – Sing Again


I guess there are always metaphors and reading between the lines...that is quite appropriate for my nature writing...and especially for those of you who know me and my wildness that has been unfolding over the past decade. So yeah...I can see where your interpretation(s) are coming from...[Sing Again – Blog] is a true account, a blend of the weather and a "bigger picture" scenario.

I really longed to be outdoors, but it was very raw and rainy...not a hard rain, a syncopated rain that as far as actual, individual raindrops, I saw (more than felt)...the drops were visible on the plastic greenhouse that covers my herb pots...I wasn't comfortable then, I preferred to sit by the fire with a cup of wild tea and plan the next thing.

As I was heading towards the house (where it was warm)...the wind picked up...and I heard a very loud, deep cry [of anguish]...at first I thought it was an animal, perhaps a moose. I stopped and listened again and figured out that it was a creaking tree. It was very distinctive. I waited and looked up the hill towards the edge of the grove where the huge white pines were swaying in the higher level of wind. Then I clearly heard many voices of the trees. It was magnificent yet borderline eerie. Once I focused on it, I liked it but  because of the implied urgency, it was somewhat disturbing at the same time.

Their song was a profound expression of their pain and concern...yes they are still healing from the loss of their brothers and sisters, but their concerns are global and pertain to the healing of Mother Earth Herself. With the ongoing disturbances, toxicity and manipulating of nature that have been practiced for decades, we (inhabitants of this great green planet) need to pause, take notice and act responsibly. No more raping the forests, fracking, drilling into the crust, spilling and dumping toxins into the atmosphere and waters and earth, killing habitats and already fragile eco systems.

It was all in that song. I listened closely, inhabiting the beauty, power and melancholy of their message. I appreciate and honor them.

As I listened, I looked over at the crocuses that were moving and unbending in the wind. I do not have an unconscious death wish. I simply admire them for living gloriously and courageously in the moment. They are a symbol of strength. They do not question their existence; they simply are. I liked that in the midst of all else that was happening.

Thank you, Jelly Bean.

Journal: Babies Breath

Sing Again

I walked and I waited beneath gray skies and syncopated rain. I could not find a reason to stay, yet I could not find it in my heart to leave. The birds sang sweetly in the middle of the day.


I envied the courage of the deep purple crocuses when they joined in song, not caring that they might die tomorrow.

The language of the senses spoke, wrapping around me like a tight fitting glove. In order to stir me, the wind blew through the outer edge of the Pine Grove. The giant White Pines called in separate creaking voices to remind me of their presence. I stopped and listened like it was the first time. [It was not, but then again it was].

I heard what they had to say and with the guidance of my inner compass, I was able to follow the conversation. Distinctive pitches swirled gracefully above within the highest green boughs stretched up towards the sky. An urgent cacophony of voices begged to be heard and then subsided, dying down to one deep, ancient voice of the eldest White Pine, commanding peace and order.

When the wind ceased, the silence tormented me. Was it greedy to want more from all possible voices of this green earth? I think not. It is with love, joy and concern that I hear messages woven within an earthly tapestry of sacred harmony.

The weeping clouds passed overhead, pausing long enough to witness the truth, yet not long enough to quench the ground [so ripe within].

I was grateful for the crow that flew fretfully from one woody branch to the next in an effort to stir the wind. Losing patience and yearning to awaken, I climbed onto the Prayer Rock and waited for the mournful choir of the Pine Grove to sing again.

Journal: Babies Breath

Tree Pulse: The Art of Tree Hugging

In the past when I hugged a tree, it was for an entirely different reason; the pulse is new to me. Of course I did not plan on becoming an expert in the art of tree hugging. However, I am what one would refer to as an authentic tree hugger.

It happened unexpectedly one morning when I was overcome with emotion while standing in the middle of a shady, deep, well established, pine grove. I didn’t know what to do. I thought of screaming (a good healthy scream), but decided against shattering the peaceful dawn chorus.

Suddenly, I found myself embracing a giant pine – well over one hundred years of age – my arms didn’t come close to reaching the halfway point. I gained a new respect for the forest and will never view a tree the same way again.

There is a gathering of young trees in a clearing behind the house. I first became a part of this sacred circle when I felt the pulse of the smallest tree, which I believe to be a Silver Maple. When leaning with my back against it, I sensed a strong, throbbing, rhythm. It reminded me of my childhood days when we dared to touch the electric fence, only without the painful jolt.

I tried to understand where this pulse was coming from. I considered that the young tree was absorbing water from the nearby, swollen, pond that had been dry for the past few months. Then I imagined that it could possibly be the heart beat of the Earth and that tendrils from the tree’s woody roots were woven intricately around a vein, tapping into Gaia’s life source.

The cluster consists of a mix of Ash and Maple with various smaller plants such as High Bush Cranberries and an assortment of Evergreens along the border. I approached each tree within the circle – also young, but bigger in diameter and a bit taller – and pressed against them in search of a pulse. I did not detect any pounding whatsoever. Perhaps Bach was inspired by such a phenomenon when he composed his Cello Suites or Violin Sonatas and Partitas, as the Silver Maple was unaccompanied.

I am an artist, historian, and naturalist… not a scientist. In the wild, I operate on past experience, pure logic and trust my intuition. Being inquisitive is a trait that I honor and it often leads to a great deal of research. However, this time I didn’t rush to the computer or bookshelf immediately in an effort to comprehend why the tree had what seemed to be a heartbeat. I preferred to simply relish the possibility instead.

About a week later I returned to the circle and leaned against the young tree. The pulse was reassuring. I wondered what it would feel like if I pressed my own heart against the rough, greenish speckled, bark. I sensed the rhythm, but for some reason the sensation was more pronounced through my spine.

Again, the other trees – without a distinguishable pulse – stood by as silent witnesses. Pondering the tree, I returned to my walk in the woods. I decided that I didn’t need to know; it is more significant to accept it and be grateful.

It is uplifting to see the tree outside of the window. When I go out to visit the pond and walk in the woods, it has become a ritual to pay my respects to the sacred circle and unite with the tree. At times the pulse is minimal, yet always detectable. I have related it to the underground water flow as this region is abundant with aquifers. It may or may not be the source.

When I feel the heavy hand pressing down upon my chest (as I do from time to time), I find myself amongst the inner circle. One afternoon as I stared at the crown of the youngest, at its wiry, leafless branches waving against an unpredictable sky, I knew that I mustn’t become dependent on the comfort, hope, or surge of energy that I experience while in unison.

When I approached the tree this morning, I embraced it with my own heart beating against the slender trunk. The others remained steadfast, nodding quietly in the mild, damp, wind – awareness emerged from grayness. It is human nature to grasp tightly onto the good things – things that we think that we love, not wanting to let go in fear of losing it and tragically not realizing the power of the ultimate grip of death, which does not only apply to living organisms, but to thoughts and dreams as well.

I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that if I rely on the tree, I am not honoring the experience for its worth. We are to be mutual in our existence.

Journal: Scarlet Lily – Babies Breath
                (Higher Souled Aspirations - Nature)