Some time ago I announced a tree story at the end a video. Said video is not available, but the tree story is very much alive for me to share here. Certain trees, notably in the tropics, are great big beings that also grow pretty fast. One such tree that I had planted by a pond refused to follow the standard, and remained a miniature great tree for years, indifferent to my ministrations and fertilizations.
the trees, are such in-spiring beings and non-doers. They witness, all the time being breathed. I have had similar experiences with a mother beech in a local ancient woodland. She has her own microclimate and I have had the honour to be invited to step in. There have been times when I sense that she conjures up a breeze, just in her vicinity, and I get showered with leaves and her fruits. Trees are wise and magical beings.
I like your tree story immensely. I once sat next to a large tree with my back to it & for a moment I could feel the water going up from the ground into the trunk! An extraordinary moment I shall never forget!🎄🔥🎄💡
I anticipate your posts with such delight, and concur with others over the beautiful way you weave words to paint such depth of story. The tree/trees appreciate your ambassadorial aplomb.
All innocence as the woman is, still she has a secret — we have said so before — a secret she never, never confesses at church. She carries shut within her breast a fond remembrance of the poor ancient gods now fallen to the estate of spirits, and a feeling of compassion for them. For do not for an instant suppose, because they are gods, they are exempt from pain and suffering. Lodged in rocks, in the trunks of oaks, they are very unhappy in winter. They greatly love heat, and prowl round the houses; they have been surprised in stables, warming themselves beside the cattle. Having no more incense, no more victims, poor things, they sometimes take some of the housewife's milk. She, good managing soul, does not stint her husband, but diminishes her own portion, and when evening comes, leaves a little cream behind in the bowl.
These spirits, which no longer appear except by night, sadly regret their exile from the day, and are eager for lights. At nightfall the goodwife hardens her heart and sallies out fearfully, bearing a humble taper to the great oak where they dwell, or the mysterious pool whose surface will double the flame in its dark mirror to cheer the unhappy outlaws.
Thank you for this, Enna. I am completely enraptured. I entertain no disbelief. I am reaching for words to express myself….all seem inadequate to communicate how your “tree language” story affects me. Some one whom I think is another wise woman recently said: “When women are (truly) ‘in’ their bodies they actually lose their words.” That explains a lot as far as it goes for me! I have to let those tides and waves of feeling wash over me and recede before I can actually find and polish words to describe those ephemeral tides and waves that ebb and flow within me!
I live near a very small town in far NW California in the middle of nearly 700,000 hectares of ‘National Forest’. "The land of many resources" it is advertised. In the past three years over 100,000h have been burned. 64,000h and 200 homes in the nearby town were reduced to white ash within hours in 2020. Somehow I survived. I did not obey ‘evacuation orders’ and the fire burned out within 100 meters of my house. In 2022 another fire ‘dustified’ 100 homes and 24,000h of forest. These were not a ‘natural’ fires. They were truly holocausts, fully burned sacrifices to the insatiable god of Denaturing. All the coniferous trees within the burn areas are dead. Many of the broadleafs are dead as well, but many are sprouting back from their rootstocks. I walk among the dead and mourn. The conifers on the edges that survived have charred trunks, and weeping sap. I put my hands there — on what seems like tears and blood — and breathe. I feel their pain. And their endurance. I touch and stroke the sprouting green wherever I pass it and engage in a give-and-take of strength, coming from me and into me.
When I imagine the death of this present body of mine I see it will likely be another burnt offering. But when my senses perceive a tree I am filled with love. So much patience, tolerance and forbearance. So much gracious bounty for so many — food, shelter, shade, heat. No running away. No distractions. Just being. I think that if reincarnation is the truth, then before a soul can attain completion it must experience at least one lifetime as a tree. <3
Ah…so, in this bird theme moment of magic, had a huge flock of seagulls swoop above my full bus in aerial splendour, gliding still winged in a spiral formation. Ah, goosebumps of joy.
Listened to this that may be of interest on enna’s Substack (minus the advertising at the end), portraying the immense power of our voice and the vowels we speak.
What if the DNA thing, is just another egregore? Myth based on some subtle truth filled with deception? Continuing to turn human truth, which from my perspective is but,eternal devine love. perhaps ?
Reminds me of a less dramatic tree-talk I had a few months ago.
http://polistrasmill.com/2023/10/09/definite-and-speculative/
Thank you Enna. I always find so much contemplate through your writing.
Profound. Our sentient companions,
the trees, are such in-spiring beings and non-doers. They witness, all the time being breathed. I have had similar experiences with a mother beech in a local ancient woodland. She has her own microclimate and I have had the honour to be invited to step in. There have been times when I sense that she conjures up a breeze, just in her vicinity, and I get showered with leaves and her fruits. Trees are wise and magical beings.
no words here to express the beauty of your conversation. thank you, Enna
I like your tree story immensely. I once sat next to a large tree with my back to it & for a moment I could feel the water going up from the ground into the trunk! An extraordinary moment I shall never forget!🎄🔥🎄💡
I anticipate your posts with such delight, and concur with others over the beautiful way you weave words to paint such depth of story. The tree/trees appreciate your ambassadorial aplomb.
This also reminded me of a lyrical passage about the Old Gods who were only partly vanquished by Christianity and technology.
From Michelet's magnificent book on medieval peasants and inquisitors:
https://books.google.com/books?id=RBfXAAAAMAAJ
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All innocence as the woman is, still she has a secret — we have said so before — a secret she never, never confesses at church. She carries shut within her breast a fond remembrance of the poor ancient gods now fallen to the estate of spirits, and a feeling of compassion for them. For do not for an instant suppose, because they are gods, they are exempt from pain and suffering. Lodged in rocks, in the trunks of oaks, they are very unhappy in winter. They greatly love heat, and prowl round the houses; they have been surprised in stables, warming themselves beside the cattle. Having no more incense, no more victims, poor things, they sometimes take some of the housewife's milk. She, good managing soul, does not stint her husband, but diminishes her own portion, and when evening comes, leaves a little cream behind in the bowl.
These spirits, which no longer appear except by night, sadly regret their exile from the day, and are eager for lights. At nightfall the goodwife hardens her heart and sallies out fearfully, bearing a humble taper to the great oak where they dwell, or the mysterious pool whose surface will double the flame in its dark mirror to cheer the unhappy outlaws.
====
Thank you for this, Enna. I am completely enraptured. I entertain no disbelief. I am reaching for words to express myself….all seem inadequate to communicate how your “tree language” story affects me. Some one whom I think is another wise woman recently said: “When women are (truly) ‘in’ their bodies they actually lose their words.” That explains a lot as far as it goes for me! I have to let those tides and waves of feeling wash over me and recede before I can actually find and polish words to describe those ephemeral tides and waves that ebb and flow within me!
I live near a very small town in far NW California in the middle of nearly 700,000 hectares of ‘National Forest’. "The land of many resources" it is advertised. In the past three years over 100,000h have been burned. 64,000h and 200 homes in the nearby town were reduced to white ash within hours in 2020. Somehow I survived. I did not obey ‘evacuation orders’ and the fire burned out within 100 meters of my house. In 2022 another fire ‘dustified’ 100 homes and 24,000h of forest. These were not a ‘natural’ fires. They were truly holocausts, fully burned sacrifices to the insatiable god of Denaturing. All the coniferous trees within the burn areas are dead. Many of the broadleafs are dead as well, but many are sprouting back from their rootstocks. I walk among the dead and mourn. The conifers on the edges that survived have charred trunks, and weeping sap. I put my hands there — on what seems like tears and blood — and breathe. I feel their pain. And their endurance. I touch and stroke the sprouting green wherever I pass it and engage in a give-and-take of strength, coming from me and into me.
When I imagine the death of this present body of mine I see it will likely be another burnt offering. But when my senses perceive a tree I am filled with love. So much patience, tolerance and forbearance. So much gracious bounty for so many — food, shelter, shade, heat. No running away. No distractions. Just being. I think that if reincarnation is the truth, then before a soul can attain completion it must experience at least one lifetime as a tree. <3
Ah…so, in this bird theme moment of magic, had a huge flock of seagulls swoop above my full bus in aerial splendour, gliding still winged in a spiral formation. Ah, goosebumps of joy.
Listened to this that may be of interest on enna’s Substack (minus the advertising at the end), portraying the immense power of our voice and the vowels we speak.
https://youtu.be/Ij8T1QCPY7I?si=CkwkiBIQFGOcQFz_
Wonder what the trees think about cloud seeding as our human way of calling rain?
What if the DNA thing, is just another egregore? Myth based on some subtle truth filled with deception? Continuing to turn human truth, which from my perspective is but,eternal devine love. perhaps ?
Thank you for this rare and wonderful sharing of being. I hope your words will open more and more people to this simple and magical human experience.
These beautiful stories should be retold as often and widely as possible!