The great mother

I read an article last week about the bristlecone pine trees of Death Valley and how they’re teetering on the brink of extinction. After a 1000-plus year reign, the rapid deterioration of our climate makes it harder from them to stave off insect attacks, and preserve their own well-being. It reminded me of the fires in 2020 and 2021 that threatened the Redwoods and sequoias in California. I remember reading the articles and looking at the images of ember coated trees engulfed in flames and humans doing their best to keep the noble beings upright. I remember the way my eyes puddled with tears and the way my chest heaved at the sight of the destruction. The way I would hide away in my room to cry, as to not alarm my family or worse yet be teasingly mocked by them for being “too sensitive.”

But honestly, I don’t need news articles to reveal the alarming truth of the state of this planet. Why? Because I have sat still and silent enough within forests to hear the cries of trees. I have dreamt of the destruction we are witnessing now since my childhood. I have wept alongside our Great Mother as she has been stripped of all her gifts, solely for our consumption.

As a little girl, I always loved trees, honestly anything outside was a friend of mine. I marveled at the texture of the bark underneath my small hands and the soothing energy that always overcame me when I leaned on a tree or wrapped my arms around one for a deep hug. My wonder at the peace they provide me and the calm that only a forest can provide has carried me through my darkest days. I still spend a lot of time, gently putting my hands on saplings, and mature trees. Always asking for permission before timidly reaching out my hand to caress those who I consider ancestors. There’s something about the land under my feet and the sky over my head that has always anchored me in divine gratitude. And my practice of talking to the trees served as my gateway to communion with the non-human inhabitants that call this place home.

I know to many, this might sound strange and even silly, but for me, it’s a way of life. One that was began by ancestors who’s names have long ago been forgotten, who you may hear speaking to you through the rustling of the wind blowing through the leaves of the trees around us. It’s an automatic need to be connected to the earth and to speak to her as if she were a dear friend. It’s the core of my native identity, even though most of the time, I’m talking to trees who are indigenous to a land that I am not. However, I see them as my bridge, my connection to those who are native to these lands.

Many of us have been unable to make space or time to understand what a loss of our most ancient and sacred trees means for our everyday lives. It’s the loss of the first watchers - the ones who collected the stories of humanity in the rings inside their trunks. Who told the tales of physical and environmental change from the color of their leaves. The beings who possess an infinite wisdom that only nature can contain.

Should these giants fall, we stand to lose the very essence of this earth.

That’s why I believe that conversations about ecology are actually mirrors of the place we humans find ourselves in.