Gifts from the Neighbor Girls, Ages 7 and 9
They told me they’re treasures for my nature collection, so I can teach others how to love the forest too.
We spoke of pine cones and sap and stones and hollows. How the ants live in tiny holes in the ground and revere their great winged queens. We stopped to investigate a tiny forgotten stuffed bear on the dirt road, an eye missing and pregnant with dust. To look for horned owl nests and investigate mysterious holes stuffed with feathers. To blow a kiss to the snake that had been crushed in the road, nearly to the other side but not quite. To smile at our neighbor resting in the blue shadow of a fir tree.
They asked me where the scratch in my arm was from. I told them probably a blackberry thorn, and they proudly showed me their blackberry scratches too. We spoke about how blackberry thorns are like kitty claws, and how sometimes things you love can hurt a little and that’s OK. They asked me what else I love besides blackberries and kitties. I said summer, and this.
I asked them what they thought about today. They asked if I felt the ground shake when their big tree fell, and how far away did I think people heard the boom. They asked how fast trees grow and how long their new redwood stump would be too sticky to play on. And had I seen the new tree sprouts that had grown so quickly from their stump? And how old was I? They wondered how long summer would last and if it was almost over. And, how many days left until Tuesday?
I asked, what happens on Tuesday? And they said, on Tuesday we go back to school and summer will end. Nonsense, I said. There are many Tuesday’s and they will come and go, and even when school has started and the other leaves have turned gold our redwood trees will still be with us carrying the smell of green and spicy heat. And we can still keep our other favorite parts of summer inside of us too. We can still eat blackberry jam and burn candles with resins and admire the feathers and seeds and stones that remind us of these warm summer days. They ask if we can still go for walks together. If we can still sing-in the moon and stars at dusk. And if I will still tell them stories of giant underground mushroom kingdoms that connect the trees. And if they can still learn which plants are medicine. And if we can still be quiet and count all the sounds we hear in the forest. Of course we can I tell them, of course.
These little neighbor girls gifted me green treasure, the seeds of everlasting giants. These seed pods still vibrant with chlorophyl and filled with their sticky rich sap. These seeds hold the potential of growing to be the tallest and oldest living organisms on the planet, reaching over 300 feet and to be over 2,000 years old. These trees that resist fire and insects and rot and human destruction, our climate change heroes that cleanse more CO2 than any other tree in the world. Trees that hold moisture-rich fog in their tissues and capture smoke from the air, raining life into their under-stories. Trees that are as old as the dinosaurs (almost).
Today I cherish these treasures. This, the sweet goodness of these seeds, the devastating fertility of summer, and the simple dewy optimism of the little neighbor girls. It hurts a little and that’s OK. Today, I hold all of this. Tomorrow, we plant them.
