I must tell you of the strange but magical thing that happened to me the other day. I’d been planning all morning to work in my garden but was suddenly drawn to a hike in the forest among the old spruces not far from my home. It was one of those afternoons among the towering trees when the air is filled with an emerald light. I heard the forest speak to me in that ancient language of Stillness, and the space between the trees was radiant with the Great Mysteries for which there is no language.
Suddenly, I heard a voice. “Stillness is such a lovely language, don’t you think?” I turned but saw no one. Then materializing out of the thimbleberries beside me was a twiggy old woman in a faded green plaid shirt, her face mottled brown with age spots, her hair wispy as fog. “And sadly an almost forgotten language these days,” she added, her old voice like footsteps on dry brush. The silvery taste of fear filled my mouth.
“Forgive my nostalgia,” the old woman said. “I was born in a sweet green time before saws and the arrival of the machines of the big tires. I’ve tried to stay relevant and become chatty…” She dismissed relevant and chatty with a wave of her hands—which were not hands at all but large green leaves. And her feet! They were no feet at all…
I gasped, and the old woman laughed. “Yes, I know,” she said, “I have lived so long in the forest that my feet have become loam.”
For a moment I stood frozen, not in fear of the old woman who seemed harmless but terrified by the strangeness of the moment which even my most rational mind told me was quite real. I stepped back and prepared to take my leave, but was held as if by a spell.
And then there appeared between the old woman and me two wooden bench seats at a small wooden table set with two wooden cups of lovely red tea. The wood shone warmly—alive even, as something seemed to look out at me impishly through the knotholes.
“Welcome,” said the table.
“Please sit,” said the bench.
“Drink,” said the cup.
The old woman gestured toward my seat with her leafy hands.
We sat and sipped. The knotholes smiled.
“Recite,” said the table.
The old woman cleared her throat and recited:
“The spirit of a tree sweetly used lives on forever.
The spirit of a tree that’s abused will suffer and wither.”
She smiled. “It’s a little something I learned from the Great PoetTree. I must get you two writers together one day.”
“Yes,” I said, realizing that something in the warm red tea seemed to have made me oddly happy and at home in the strangeness.
“I see my tea agrees with you,” the old woman said. “Every spring clusters of starry white petals blossom around my heart. All winter I am sustained by the simple red fruits of my heart. But as you can see,” she said managing the teacup awkwardly with her leafy hands, “typing is quite impossible for me. And there is much work to be done. Which brings me to my point—the reason I have brought you here today.”
Could this be? That I was brought? In fact, I had planned to work in the garden…
“Yes,” the old woman confirmed, “you were brought.”
“Who are you?” I demanded, more than a little annoyed at being manipulated.
“My name is Thimbleberry Freshwater,” the old woman said. “Having studied at the School of Natural Law, I have been asked by the Sentient Forest Beings to plead their case in the Court of Public Opinion. My clients, you see are running out of options. Their homeland is being cut away and sprayed with dangerous chemicals that poison our food, our air, and our water. Why just the other day, I had five elk come to me with deformed horns. So many of my little birds are suffering immune problems. And I am in constant grief thinking of the untold number of small beings crushed by the metal treads and those that survive coming to a quivering death brought on by the rain of chemicals from the sky.”
The old woman’s voice wavered and her leafy hands grew dewy.
The knotholes stared up at me with a piteous grief.
“We have lived in hope,” Thimbleberry continued, “that the laws of the Land of the Free would somehow grow in stature and love of the Planet to protect us. But we can’t even get what the Powerful People call a seat at the table. The only way we even get into the room is that our own are felled and turned into the seats and table—planed, shellacked, and turned into the instruments of negotiation. In seeking support for our cause, I will be presenting a series of briefs for public consideration. But we need someone to prepare and type up the briefs,” she paused and waved her leafy hands. “This is where you come in.”
“Oh but wait just a minute,” I snapped, “you can’t just assume I…”
“You see,” Thimbleberry went on, oblivious to my growing irritation, “it has come to my attention that there is also a grief in the world among the Sentient Human Beings who have also been denied their seat at the table. They also are being poisoned by the chemicals of progress. It is time to unite. Time to present our case as One. You have the skills of communication to tell our story and and gather support in the Court of Public Opinion.”
“But, why me,” I protested, “I’m no expert on forest issu…”
My thought was cut off by the sound of chain saws. All around me the great trees fell. The ground shook was if the entire earth had turned to thunder. And then we were sitting in the middle of a gray and wasted land, a forest stripped of its trees. Nothing but stumps amidst brittle piles of slash as as far as the eye could see. Sensations of ravage rose from the phantom limbs. Stillness had turned to the quiet of a house the morning after death. And then from a distance, the sound of a helicopter, louder and louder and there we were at our little table helpless as the rain of chemicals began to fall out of the sky.…
I woke as if from a nightmare, back in the forest, a guest at Thimbleberry’s little table.
“What you have seen,” she said, “is what the experts have done with their laws and studies. This is what the Powerful People plan at their seats around the table.”
“I would like to help,” I said. “But I have no idea where to begin.”
“Come back tomorrow for tea at my little table. My clients will tell you their stories. And I will tell you about my days in the School of Natural Law. Our laws are older than money and grief. They will show you the way.”
“Okay,” I said, “but…” Before I could voice my concerns regarding time and other responsibilities, my attention was drawn to a black bear pushing a shopping cart down the trail.
“Now there’s a story that will break your heart,” said Thimbleberry. “Tea, then, tomorrow at noon?”
And reluctant though I was, who could refuse the heartbreaking story of a bear pushing a shopping cart.
Next: The Heartbreaking Tale of Bear Stern
