I am scrolling through news of the tragic aftermath of the atmospheric river that deluged much of BC, destroying lives, livelihoods, homes, and infrastructure.
I am sitting at my desk looking out at the autumn-naked branches of the trees that line the river.
And I think about the pain thy must feel at the loss of their brothers and sisters this past summer as wildfires swept through BC’s interior.
And I wonder if they are hurting now in the sadness of knowing many of their sisters and brothers were swept in the storm’s wake — and how, if they could only have stood their ground against the fires, some of what happened might not have been.
I am breathing into the trees this morning. Breathing and listening, deeply, to their pain and what they have to say.
In The Language Of Trees by Louise Gallagher The language of trees lays buried deep within their roots digging into the earth stretching their arms in search of whispers of life within the cracks and crevices of time lying still beneath Mother Nature’s soiled covers. The language of trees is felt rising up through crenellated bark and rugged trunks standing tall against the wind hurling obscenities at their unwillingness to give up ground to its demands. The language of trees is heard deep within the sibilant whispers of its leaves telling stories to the birds and bees and scampering squirrels who clamber along its branches in search of place to hide through winter’s storms. The language of trees is written everywhere. We must listen before it’s too late to hear their roots calling us to help them stay grounded.