Today, I read a good book under the redwood tree. It was a book about the life around us and to adore it.
I stay under the redwood because I am the book’s audience of nature. I am part of nature. I adore it.
The tree was tall and mighty, eclipsing even the peaks of the other tallest lifeforms around him.
Healthy roots allowed the tree to balance himself, although not to completely help him.
He was a strong plant, firmly able and apt for a long life. Even without roots, he would be able to stand strong for years.
Although without the nutrition of his roots, he would be a long forgotten corpse in the depth of a forest in nowhere.
The hollow of the redwood was home to an elder owl.
Many years ago, even before I came to the redwood, she arrived.
She was a wise owl; one who emitted a spirit to the forest and its animals.
The redwood always welcomed life into him, but the owl was special.
The owl had a certain elegance to her; a glow in her mind.
She could see what little others saw in the world: a glimpse of emotion.
Not just any emotion, but of all, it was her fear.
Times change, and so do the people; the magnates, the bloodthirsty, the otherworldly evils.
The wise owl, the wisest of them all, saw a world burn before her at birth, a time she couldn't bear to remember.
All she could see was a tall man in a dark brown suit, coming out of large vehicles in and out, and all she could see was the green in his eyes.
The redwood’s hollow was the owl’s new safe space; a new niche, with whoever passes by being her new family.
The redwood was a pleasant, welcoming figure. The figure I now sit under and lay to see the stars on.
The figure that is like a father to me, as the owl also sees.
He does not speak. But his towering elegance tells me all I need to know of him.
The rustling of his leaves above in the autumn wind, some of them blowing around and piling around the ground.
The scent of the dirt and the moss on the bark, piling up around the hollow where the owl lives, in an oddly harmonizing fashion.
The creatures and substances around it, feeling in the distance a light crisp from a pond rich in its ozone and sea life.
I once felt a squirrel run over my lap while laying under the redwood. He was a fun fellow for a bit, but he seemed in a hurry.
I don’t know what he could have been in such haste for, but perhaps he was desperate to find something. Food? Water?
Or perhaps the squirrel was simply on a run. Rodents are always on the move. To me, it gives them a specific angle.
It makes me think of us humans; always on the move to do something, always prepared, always on the run, before one day we can’t anymore.
Before one day, we’re too lost in our adventures to find our lives.
The squirrel was a charming creature nevertheless. He was of the redwood. He was pure.
The redwood truly yields the life of his forest together.
Including me, a reader. I have told you of the book I’ve read, and how I have come to appreciate the redwood as the soul of this forest because of the book’s wisdom.
But, in truth, it was not the book that taught me to search in a new dimension for life, but it was the redwood tree himself.
He chants words of wisdom and yet cannot say any of them; he lets nature speak them.
And if I know one thing from his words, it’s to the forest he shall return it.
It being the doorway to a new dawn: away from the footings of technological despotism, from oleaginous sovereignty, from the torture us humans bring to these innocent creatures and life.
But to his new leaf, in the sunrise of a new age, when he is gone.
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