In the Beginning

It started with a stick, a finely smoothed and varnished walking stick, knobby but (mostly) straight and (indisputably) strong, made and given to us years and years ago by the Finest of Friends, who said, This will lead you to the forest.

At long last this walking stick, and Karma the Beloved Dog (who insists upon being accompanied for all but the most impulsive of quests) led us to the Northwest Woods.

The Northwest Woods, like most forests, features, most prominently, trees (although it certainly is not limited to them). It is our opinion that each tree, like each person, has a story to tell. We have found that the trees in the Northwest Woods have been barely able to contain themselves, so eager are they to offer up their tales. Some days, in fact, it can appear as if the entire forest is babbling, and a person walking in the woods for a little peace and quiet might be well-advised to keep his or her eyes to the ground lest the trees infer there is a captive audience at hand (although just who in particular is more captive is certainly up for dispute, and may be a bit like the bad actor calling the tree wooden).

Now, where were we? Ah, in the Northwest Woods, of that we are certain, though our last paragraph does remind us that we tend to write quite like Karma the Beloved Dog tends to take a walk. There may (or may not, in our lesser moments) be a destination in mind, but certainly Karma (or evidently yours truly) does not make directly for it. 

By the way, isn’t it curious that although one hears about making a “bee” line for somewhere, or references to “as the crow flies,” there is seldom reason to recommend advancing like a dog? It may be precisely because, well, advancing is such a dubious proposition when it comes to a dog. Instead, your average dog (and here we have Beloved Karma in mind, although he is most assuredly light years Above Average) will begin even his most coveted and dearly anticipated journey by proceeding in every possible direction, coming to complete standstills for no apparent reason, followed by retracing, reversing, and reinventing his itinerary at every point on his way to Straight Ahead.

Given our attachment to Karma the Beloved Dog, you will thus understand (and, we hope, forgive) the apparent confounding of our walking and writing styles. We do begin to resemble those we love, as we’re sure you have noted.

However, to return to the Northwest Woods, we would like to point out that apart from particularly Notable Characters of an Arboreal Nature, to whom you are shortly to be introduced, the Northwest Woods offers many other unexpected pleasures. We will leap right to them, forthwith, because journeys that begin on a pleasant note are rewards in themselves (as Karma himself so notably demonstrates at the onset of each walk with the jauntiness of his gait and his gaily lifted leg).

The Heartbeam Spot

You will think we are making this up, but we promise it is absolutely true. (There may be other occasions when you have cause to doubt our word, and we pledge to alert you at the earliest possible moment when your doubting is with cause, but we trust that you will otherwise believe every word we say. Much of what we report we can verify with accompanying photographs and directions allowing you to do the same, but in the case of the Heartbeam Spot, there are particular limitations owing to phenomena we will shortly describe, and you will therefore need to take a significant leap of faith, but please do so).

Well.

On the path just beyond the trail considerately identified as “H,” but just before one gets to the turn-off at “I,” at a certain time of day and a certain time of year when the sun is, necessarily, shining and the branches and leaves are all angled just so owing to a particular breeze (or perhaps the absence thereof), a golden shaft of sunlight wends its shining way through the tangle of leaves and trees, and for reasons we cannot otherwise ascertain produces a big, fat, perfect heart-shaped patch of sun upon the ground, which we call the Heartbeam Spot.

We know this was real because two of us saw it.

Otherwise one of us would worry she was making this up.

The Heart-Shaped Stump and the Tree-That-Pierces-to-the-Core

Less testing of our credulity is the Heart-Shaped Stump. We say that since, as an artifact, it is constant in its form and not subject to the vicissitudes (we think that would make a delicious soup) of time and light and breezes. As a heart shape it is perhaps less perfectly defined than your ideal crisp and symmetrical heart, but it nonetheless qualifies, as we hope the above photograph demonstrates.

This stump serves as the ideal perch overlooking the Great Chasm, at the bottom of which McCormick Creek flows. Right in the middle of the Great Chasm is the Tree-That-Pierces-To-The-Core, a tree so tall and noble you cannot see its top, nor, because the Great Chasm is so deep, can you see its base, as is aptly demonstrated in the picture below.



We interpret this limitation as an affirmation of the Universal Truth, “As above, so below,” which we take to mean that All Things Are Necessarily Exactly As They Must Be (which is often a struggle for us to accept).

In this acceptance, however, we are given great encouragement from the source of the aforementioned Universal Truth, the great Emerald Tablet, which adds, Thus thou hast the glory of the whole world. We think that if complete acceptance of “As above, so below” vouchsafes us the “glory of the whole world,” we have made a very good bargain, indeed.

The Emerald Tablet, you ask? We can well understand your puzzlement, and we are happy to provide more in the way of information, in the form of the picture below.



For your further edification, let us add that the Emerald Tablet was set down over twenty centuries ago, and is said to contain all the secrets of the Universe. This, we feel, is no small achievement. It is purported to have been written by Hermes Trismegistus, whose name is clearly a challenge to the tongue but is quite worth the effort; just try it: Tris-muh-gist-us.

One of us likes to say it so much she would quite like to change her name. (As it happens, however, the pronunciation above has not been verified and is very likely to be incorrect. At present, however, she appears to have the upper hand.)

Here, by the way, is an illustration of Trismegistus Himself.


We like it because he has such a pleasant expression on his face, and appears to have one set of arms bearing what we imagine is The Emerald Tablet and some other proclamation, as well as a second set of arms with hands cupping his chin in what we are imagining is thoughtful pleasure at the inquiries of his guests.

And here is another illustration of him, which we can’t resist adding because it amuses us greatly. Here he appears to be reading a children’s book (or at least we think it must be, because of the pictures on the cover) to an assortment of jostling individuals, as well as to some birds who seem to be listening quite a bit more attentively than the humans. Well, sitting down and reading a book out loud in the forest sounds like a very good idea for us to do, now that we think about it, in the Northwest Woods.



Now, where were we? Ah, yes, here we are, standing on the Heart-Shaped Stump, and paying homage to the Tree-That-Pierces-To-the-Core, which also often reminds us of those hearts with swords running through them (we think they are a medieval allusion to Courage, a Useful Virtue at any juncture), but what we actually feel each time we stand on the Heart-Shaped Stump and gaze at the Tree-That-Pierces-To-the-Core is, simply, awe, and the deepest gratitude. All is accepted, all, as above, so below. Each time we are thus vastly consoled, and we bow and say thank you before we leave.

The Ancestor Tree

There are many ways to get to know a forest, but we take particular pleasure in finding and being introduced to the ancestor trees. To know one's ancestors is, we believe, to know oneself, and it is our very great honor to present the Northwest Woods' Ancestor Tree to you.

Now, you might think from the picture above that you are not seeing the Ancestor Tree in all its Original Glory, and that is quite true. As it happens, we often do not have occasion to know those we meet at their best, and we generally advise bearing in mind their greatest potential in all one's encounters, which perception considerably adds to the pleasure of every occasion.

You may reasonably wonder at how it was determined that this was the Ancestor Tree. As you will shortly discover, it often takes several (and even more) walks in the Northwest Woods before one becomes entirely receptive to the individuals therein. It's quite like the process of any encounter with the new: at first it is all unknown and anonymous, and then little by little each individual part comes to be known.

We have found in the Northwest Woods that it also helps to actually see what one, well, sees. All too often we dash headlong along with our long list of heady tasks (we rather like how that sounds) oblivious of what's around us. But if we have occasion to pause, say, in the interests of waiting for Karma the Beloved Dog, it is in those long moments that we might notice exactly where we are.

As it happens, the Ancestor Tree is so grand that it called attention all to itself, quite independent of the stops and starts of our walk. There is a further pausing, however, that is necessary if one truly wants to know what one encounters. A Frenzied Pause will simply not do, nor will a Distracted one, nor will a Closed-Door-of-the Mind Pause do. However, if one is willing to pause, and then listen with the ear of one's soul, why one would be simply enchanted with what is heard.

The Ancestor Tree of the Northwest Woods is surrounded by countless other trees in varying stages of growth. Despite having eventually doubled over in a single fell crash across the Great Chasm, its base is nonetheless so sturdy and wide it could be a home for a veritable forest unto itself. Many of the trees around it were felled at an earlier age, or struck by lightning, or afflicted with some, er, we think we can safely say, affliction, but clearly the Ancestor Tree lived long enough to have become a Magnificent Ruin.

We think to be a Magnificent Ruin is quite a respectable goal for ourselves, although we suspect that to be ancient is both harder and nobler than we might imagine.

In any woods you visit, we urge you to find the Ancestor Tree, and join it in its Silent Contemplation. We did so, and continued on, feeling quite the way we do when we have been in a Grand Cathedral.

The Denizens of the Northwest Woods

Now that you have met the Ancestor Tree, perhaps you are interested in being introduced to some of the other denizens of the Northwest Woods. [Although as it turns out, denizens, according to the Oxford English Dictionary (of which one anagrammatic possibility is A Stirring Holy Ox Confided) is not exactly the correct term since it refers to residents who are not natives, and the trees in the Northwest Woods are most certainly natives since it is an old-growth forest. Nonetheless, we are partial to the term (denizens sounds particularly apropos of the woods, although it does appear to limit us to forest mammals), and we are disinclined to let our flaming misappropriation of it dissuade us from nonetheless employing it. You will note, by the way, that this kind of Willful Misrepresentation is seldom encountered in the natural world, although it is difficult to say which is worse: not knowing we misused a term, or knowing and misusing it anyhow. It might be argued that it’s a case of being forced to choose between obtuseness or obstinance, and we are, in any case, choosing the latter.]

But to continue.

We have heard it inquired how it is that trees, traditionally regarded as tight-lipped, if lipped at all (although with some exceptions, see below) can be said to speak.



Well, it is our opinion the issue is not so much do trees talk, but do we listen? We are, in modern times, virtually bombarded with words and noises, and we daresay many of us have quite forgotten the virtues of silence. It is precisely in the practice of that latter virtue (for it surely deserves to be one) that we each might hear so much more than we hear.

One final point must be made as to the issue of gender (which we recognize you have not raised, but we are anticipating your objection). We have been asked how in our tree conversations we can tell the difference between a him and a her, and, quite frankly, we cannot. This, in many respects, appears to be a superior arrangement to the human, who must oblige (and/or resist) any number of mandates by virtue of a factor that quite rightly perceived would be only a minor detail on the order of where you part your hair (if in possession of same).

For that reason, we highly encourage each of you to modify the reported genders in any way you deem relevant to your own experience. We can promise the trees won’t mind in the least.

The Singing Tree, by way of the Bouncing Tree

It was a windy and, frankly, unnecessarily nippy day in the forest.

All right then, if we’re completely honest (as we’ve pledged to be), it was the throes of winter, so no surprise there, and actually we thought it was deliciously nippy. However, some of us worry we may sound a bit too treacly at times, and a little grumbling seems to be the needed antidote.

It does feel good to grumble a bit, even if it requires some exaggeration of circumstances to do so. Anyhow, we are of the opinion that Literary License itself allows for the occasional creative use of facts.

(And isn’t that, now that we think about it, an interesting concept in itself: Literary License. Do you suppose it can really be issued, and if so, by whom? What do you suppose it reads like?

LITERARY LICENSE

Effective (date), and (year), the following (name) hereby has the undersigned’s permission to:

1.  Digress from an initial proposition to such an extent that it is no longer recalled, nor is the point of its telling, and if it weren’t written down previously would be utterly lost to posterity;
2.  Use vaguely familiar but somewhat uncommon terms from other sources;
3.  Employ words of sometimes indeterminate applicability and often with excess syllables so as to lend for an air of perspicuity and a certain random ambly-ness;  
4.  Invent words on-the-spot, as needed, or if not a word itself to construct a portmanteau that would serve the purpose; 
5.  Modify representations of facts so as to address considerations beyond those of Accuracy, such as Whimsy, Necessary Discharge of Grumbliness for No Apparent Justifiable Cause, Deep Appreciation for the Paradoxical Nature of It All, and Transmission of Essential Truths that Do Not Adhere, Properly Speaking, to the So-Called Facts;
6.  Intentionally misuse common terms as long as there is forthright acknowledgement of same;
7. Make the boldest of assertions confidently and then contradict oneself with equal confidence later;
8. Offer parenthetical statements within parenthetical statements with only a cursory effort at complying with literary regulations, as per Stunk & Write's Elements of Style;
9.  Confound the personal and poetic for purposes of conveying what one most deeply and ineffably believes about both the Natural and the Unnatural World (Supernatural and Preternatural Worlds are not included in this agreement and require a different license).

Signed,

Oliver Edward Dunbar, LLD

Treacly itself, by the way, turns out to have a fascinating origin, deriving from Middle English, Old French, Latin and Greek, and meaning “antidote against poison or a poisonous bite from a wild animal.” We promise to alert you as to the presence of any Wild Animals in the Northwest Woods, some of which we do have a hint of. In the meantime we think it a bit of an irony that we need an antidote to the antidote treacly in the form of grumbly, when one would think it would be the other way around.

But where were we? Ah.

The Singing Tree, Resumed

It was a windy and nippy-of-some-sort day in the Northwest Woods, and one of us was showing her beloved visitors all her favorite places, stopping, at last, to rest at the Bouncing Tree, which feels quite like what we imagine being jostled as a toddler must have felt like during recitation of “Bambury Cross,” or some other such eminently bounceable rhyme.



The Bouncing Tree feels every bit as nice as a riding horse or a rocking horse or riding a rocking knee, with the further advantage that it is very, very strong and could probably hold an entire entourage (not that we have one). Certainly, though, it held at least two (or at least one and a half), as you can see in the photograph above.

On this particular day, as our treasured visitors sat and bounced, one of us was convinced she suddenly heard the most dismal sound one can hear in the woods: the heartless, cold, relentless rattle of a chainsaw.

No, said her brother, who himself is quite like a Tree in his deep and silent watchfulness, I don’t think it’s a chainsaw.

But one of us was quite certain that it was. Sigh, she thought (or perhaps exhaled). She hoped that if it was a chainsaw it was functioning in the service of an already felled tree, perhaps one blocking the path of some gentle elderly person who would not otherwise be able to continue his happy walk in the Northwest Woods, or some toddly Christopher Robin sort cavorting down the trail, or...

No, wait, said her brother, who had been walking around the vicinity eying the trees suspiciously. That's not a chainsaw making that sound, he announced. That's this TREE!

Ridiculous, she said. Impossible! How could a tree be making a sound like that?

Well, her brother said, come over here and put your ear up against the trunk.

She was, admittedly, cocksure and uncertain in the same breath, but she vacated her position on the Bouncing Tree to lean her ear up against the green, furry trunk. Sure enough every time the “chainsaw” was heard, there was a corresponding ringing coming from inside the tree. Within it she could hear what were positively celestial tones. The tree was singing. Truly singing. Tone after tone rang out (or in, as the case was) sometimes followed by little rapping noises, and other times by a hum. It was a veritable modern symphony! Perhaps post-modern. Certainly minimalist, in a Philip Glass sort of way. She was entranced.

Look, her brother explained. See how this tree is leaning against the one over there? When the wind starts up it causes this tree to rub against that other one, thus making the “chainsaw” noise you hear on the outside. Within the tree, however, the vibrations produce a different sound. It's physics, really, basically science, he added.

Well, it is our opinion that Science is quite the remarkable thing.

As it happens there is also a considerable literary and artistic tradition for Singing Trees. The Arabian Nights' Entertainment has a lovely chapter devoted to a Singing Tree, which is pictured below:



There is, furthermore, an astounding sculpture in the northwest of England called "The Singing, Ringing Tree" which "harnesses the energy of the prevailing winds" and can be heard to "sing" across several octaves.



But this Singing Tree in the Northwest Woods was neither literature, nor art. It was more, it seemed, miraculous. which truly is Science at its best.

Now, every time we visit the Bouncing Tree, we stop to listen to the Singing Tree. Most of the time it is silent, but on those days when we lean our ear against its green, furry bark and hear its symphony within, we are filled with such joy that tears spring to our eyes. It sings! we say in amazement. It sings!

And then we are filled with love, and gratitude, for her brother.

A Dark Wood

It has just occurred to us that we have already been midway into the Northwest Woods without ever having actually entered it. So let's retrace our steps.

Now, the main entrance to the Northwest Woods begins with a fine and winding path surrounded on both sides by sunlight and trees. Even on cloudy days there is a luminous light emanating from a source that can only be the Northwest Woods’ own true nature. However, lest you think the Northwest Woods is just too sweet for its own good, dare we say cloying, we do want to mention that we don’t have to venture far into the bright and beaming forest before we come face-to-face with its inevitable… shadow.



Those more observant might notice that on the right of the path as they ascend the first steep-ish sort of hill is a small, tiny, desperate figure frozen in flight as she rushes downhill, her arms outstretched, her panic nearly palpable. Clearly she has been caught running at some speed downhill, which should be alarm sufficient for all but the most oblivious of passers-by.

It is, actually, our first clue that not all in the Northwest Woods is sweetness and light, and for that we must breathe a sigh of relief, lest we suffocate from sheer surfeit of sweetness.



Those who continue past the frightened little figure (and we imagine some do turn about in their tracks) are thus not entirely taken by surprise when, at the crest of the path, suddenly all golden vistas give way, and we are in a Dark Wood.

The Dark Wood is not terribly long a stretch of the path, but it is significantly darker, and more closed in on either side, and it does seem that the birds suddenly stop chattering, and everything else gets very, very quiet. In the silence, if one stands still (which one is not at all inclined to do), one hears vague rustlings and muffled snaps and other surreptitious scurrying about.

“Scurry” does indeed seem to be the order of the moment, and we won’t think the less of you were you to yield to that impulse.

Now sometimes it is fun to be scared, and sometimes it is scary to be scared, and it is useful to know just when one becomes the other. It is our conviction that the moment one no longer feels safe alone is the crucial divide, so we recommend that you are accompanied at this juncture of your explorations (Beloved Dogs are strongly advised).

If, however, you do screw your courage to the sticking point and manage not to turn yourself Right Back Around and go rushing down the path with your arms outstretched quite like a certain previously encountered figure, then right toward the middle end of the Dark Wood, off to the side, is a very nicely positioned log carefully propped up on two smaller pieces at either end, all but pleading Sit Here. However improbably, we absolutely recommend that you do so.



It may be while sitting there that you belatedly recognize the madly rushing figure you had previously encountered is not, in fact, fleeing in terror, but is a remnant of a moss-covered stump (though it does nonetheless leave one of us to wonder if, in an instant, we, too, can be transformed from our big, confident selves to a small scrap of ancient, immobile, mossy wood, and how, indeed, those circumstances would arise).

More about that later.

All the same, such a pleasant little respite seems utterly contrary to one’s previous biases about a Dark Wood, and we have found that when we sit in that quiet, shaded little spot we begin to feel remarkably brave and strong.

There’s nothing quite like sitting calmly with one’s fears, after all; we often note how when we do so, the fears seem to fade, and oddly enough the birds begin their sweet chatter once again.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

Thus fortified, we believe you are ready for a discussion of some of the other perils of the Northwest Woods. We believe that fears anticipated are fears prepared for, and we always prefer a Thorough Rehearsal of any Potentially Difficult Moments, as suggested in the illustration above.

Contrary to this chapter’s title, however, you do not have to fruzzle yourselves about Lions and Tigers and Bears in our particular Northwest Woods. We rather wish we did, actually, since we do wonder what has become of all of them, and worry our presence has discouraged theirs.

Thankfully, there are dangers enough nonetheless (of a tamer sort, most agreeably) and we would like you to be prepared as you wend your way through the Northwest Woods.

First of all, we highly recommend that you Take Note. Many people, on their daily constitutional, plow along the path with all the sensitivity of a large, yellow bulldozer.



As it happens, we are particularly partial to large, yellow bulldozers, as beautifully demonstrated in the painting by our wonderful friend, Mary Stroeing, of our son as a young boy.



Nonetheless, bulldozers of any description, no matter how fetching, are not welcome in the Northwest Woods. We urge you, instead, to make yourself invisible when you are in the Northwest Woods. This, you might believe, is hindered by the fact that you can see yourself, and your Beloved Dog, but in the forest your Beloved Dog is invisible, and so should you be.

To that end, may we recommend drinking Peach Blossom White Tea from China's Fujian province, which in our experience is a brew so subtle you will progressively evanesce with each sip, and slender sorts may well vanish altogether before finishing the first cup.

If you do not happen to have that particular phantasmal tea on hand, to be invisible only requires that you move very quietly, and slowly, and carefully, noting every detail your tender mind can wrap itself around. Pay particular attention to the things you never otherwise notice. In so doing, we are certain that you will discover all the guidance you require as you proceed, for the Northwest Woods and other forests are the most generous of hosts and happy to supply you with every wish and need.

For instance, you may come to certain junctures in the Northwest Woods in which decisions about which way to proceed are at stake. The forest can help you. We, for instance, could not choose between taking the “S” path or the “R” path, but fortunately discovered this little fellow clearly pointing the way, and he was quite right: it was the perfect path.



Now, had we been in our usual bulldozer mode we may well have failed to have taken note of such a random bit of bark [Madrone, as it turns out, which is inclined anyhow to peel in such satisfying shapes, revealing underneath a lovely lime-yellow-green trunk (dare we say chartreuse?) so smooth and radiant that we have found ourselves very much wishing to be that color. Or at least one of us has.].



(Editors Note: We hastily retract any subsequent disparaging remarks about the color chartreuse, and wish to attribute such comments to Willful Indulgence in Contradicting Oneself, fully subscribing to Oscar Wilde's assertion that, "The well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves." We would like to believe that we are thus, arguably, in possession of said wisdom, but at least one of us knows better.)

At other moments, one might be proceeding blithely on and encounter something like the figure below, who very much seems to suggest surprise and a thoughtful caution about continuing.



We did, in fact, reconsider our route, and felt much the safer.

Or, the forest might present to you a figure such as the following one, who clearly appeared to communicate a plaintive alarm, although we chose to ignore it (with good results) since it struck as unnecessarily over-anxious.



Similarly, the figure below, who manages to suggest caution without necessarily urging that any plans for proceeding be changed.



In sum, to those who will be attentive, the Northwest Woods can offer every bit as much in the way of reassurance and redirection (and quite a bit is necessary in our case, for we are geographically-challenged in both our two- and four-legged incarnations, contrary, with regard to the latter, to canine lore) as it does chills and thrills.

Addendum: Were you to need to reverse your condition of invisibility, may we recommend a strong cup of Lapsang Souchong (also from the Fujian province, by delightful coincidence), which is itself capable not only of restoring you to robust corporeal condition but will put hair on your chest. Although we personally enjoy it, we have heard it described as only "generally palatable," which is as tentative an endorsement as one is likely to get from a substance that the FDA has not already banned.

The Menacing Lizard, a Dinosaur, and Some Dubious Snakes

While it is true there are no Lions and Tigers and Bears in our particular Northwest Woods, there are, nonetheless, other creatures of a dubious and possibly troubling nature, such as this fellow above. Our tolerance for his fairly menacing posture is greatly facilitated by the fact that he is quite (it could be said even altogether) immobile.

That said, he is nonetheless capable of inspiring a certain frisson, as the French say, which we take to mean a shuddery little chill in this particular case (perhaps owing to our diminishing linguistic skills and our (probable) corresponding mispronunciation as freeze-on).

But if you need any further urging in the department of Taking Note, we suspect the figure below may serve as the Ultimate Cautionary Figure (or the Northwest Woods' pièce de résistance, to engage in a bit of Francophilia again, resistance being the particularly pertinent term since it appears that is the limit of its offensive capabilities):



You will be reassured to note that it is of the species Dinosaurus ineffectus, owing, most certainly, to its (happily noted, again) immobile condition, although to the hasty eye it may well induce a touch of apoplexy if unprepared. (By the way, we urge you not to confuse Karma the Beloved Dog's evident intrepidness for Oblivion to Danger, which he most certainly is not subject to.)

It is with some relief, then, that further threats to our well-being appear to have even less in the way of mobility, what with only their claws being exposed and the rest of them being (evidently) underground.



And then there are those who are patently incapable of damage but who nonetheless effect as threatening a posture as they can muster,



which even we recognize is as about as threatening a menace as a stuffed piranha (which, by the way, we do have a picture of).



(Thereby begging, of course, the questions of just who in the world would seek a stuffed toy in the form of a piranha, and could we arrange a meeting?)

Ah, and snakes. Now, we should probably clarify that although we don’t dislike snakes, and even on one occasion could be said to have petted one, and another to have rescued one (with fairly powerful results, but that’s for another telling), we don’t feel altogether comfortable knowing they are out and about (which, as it happens, they are not, in the Northwest Woods), with fangs, and with possibly accompanying venom (which, we hasten to add, they don't have in the Northwest Woods because there aren't any).  We do think snakes are very interesting, and mysterious, and we have great respect for them, but it gives our feet great comfort to know in scuffling about the forest leaves we are not at risk of venomous nips to our toes.

Even though it is true that there are no poisonous snakes in our particular Northwest Woods (we know we've said that before but it gives us great confidence to repeat it) there are, nonetheless, enough what-appear-to-be snakes to fill a Medusa’s head.









Here, by the way, is a picture of Medusa, about whom you may have previously heard, and who looks quite like one of us feels now and then on a particularly disagreeable day, of which we are grateful to have very few.



Here is another picture of her in which she appears just as confused about why she is behaving so poorly as, we presume, those around her are:



Medusa, as you might know, is a goddess whose beautiful head was turned into snakes, which in turn caused anyone who looked (and how could one not? Certainly were we to encounter a woman whose head was seething with reptiles we would most certainly take a second, and possibly third, look)

But where are we now? Ah, yes. To look would cause the looker to turn to stone.

We do feel Medusa has been rather misunderstood, and certainly snakes have been given short shrift (we think that can be redressed by lowering the hems), but she is a very important goddess to know about for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that we each must be on the alert for those moments when our own anger is such that it can turn others to stone.

In the event of a future occasion in which we find ourselves impossibly, steam-blowingly, angry, we have, fortunately, discovered that we can order our own Medusa wig:



We are hopeful that, instead of cussing and fussing and fuming, we might divert our attentions by donning it. In the very least it will alert those around us that We Are Not To Be Messed With, which is always useful to let others know in advance. We are guessing that it will also make us laugh, which is one of the most reliable antidotes to anger.

This may not, however, prevent you from feeling the tiniest bit apprehensive now and then, what with the puzzling transformation of snakes, lizards and (evidently) dinosaurs into wood, and the suspicion that there must be Some Thing Responsible.

We are guessing there is some figure of a Medusa sort in the Northwest Woods capable of becoming in the very least Very Annoyed, and perhaps it is the Menacing Lizard, above. We can’t say for certain.

The Two Trees That Are Happy Together

We continue to suspect that there is Some Thing Responsible for the evident transformation of various fauna into wooden caricatures, but sometimes it is better to Set a Challenge Aside (particularly the frightening ones), the better to recoup one's energies for another go at a decidedly more salutary moment. In any event, often the antidote to fear is, curiously enough, gratitude, for certainly there are few fears for which there is not a Greater Threat from which one is being spared. We have learned, in our fast-fleeting lifetimes, that just about anything we face could always be worse, which strikes us as one of the more useful employments of Relativity Theory.

As it happens, among the things we ourselves are most grateful for are the The Two Trees That Are Happy Together. As you can see from the photograph above, they are so much alike you would think they are identical twins, and perhaps after all this time they are. It is said, after all, that that you begin to resemble what you love (which possibility urges considerable caution in the choice of love objects).

We in the forest are certain they are an actual couple because they share the same solid base, as if all their life’s experiences together have pooled and joined them into one sturdy unit.

Everyone in the Northwest Woods wonders how they could have stayed together for so long, in such apparent peace and civility. It is indeed a very great puzzle, how happiness can be found together for more than a few years, and it is very rare, in fact, for that to happen.

The Two Trees That Are Happy Together are very modest about their success (which is perhaps another way of saying they aren’t very helpful in explaining it). They aren’t happy all the time, they cheerfully admit, and they have their share of Fractious Moments. The most they would say to account for their agreeableness is that they simply have certain jobs to do, and they do them. Each could do the jobs on his or her own, but they choose to work together. (We do think individual choice is a crucial dimension in successful relationship, as opposed to legal contract, obligation, social pressure, desperation, abject loneliness, and binding agreements in the eyes of a deity).

The Two Trees That Are Happy Together do insist that despite appearances, they really are very different from each other.

Perhaps they are, but what has struck us is that they are in every way each other’s equal: the same height, the same girth, the same straight and noble trunks.

The same quiet and thoughtful way of listening to each other.

The Wanna-Be Tree

As peaceably devoted as the Two Trees That Are Happy Together Are, we nonetheless know full well love does not always result in such contentment. As a matter of fact, it seems more so to be the exception, and a broken heart (or two, or three, or even more) is, inevitably, the lot of most two-legged creatures with whom we are associated.

Here is Wanna-Be Tree's tale.

She loved him, and maybe even wished that she was him. As soon as she met him, she wrapped her red, silky root around the base of his trunk, and planned how he would love her in return.

What he loved, on the other hand (or is it branch?), was being loved. Many other trees had envied him (or so he thought), so he was quite used to their admiring attentions. Wanna-Be Tree’s complete and utter adoration was quite his due, in his estimation.

At first he enjoyed her devoted attention, and didn’t altogether mind that she had planted herself so close beside him. All too soon, however, he began to feel a bit cramped by her proximity, and in fact her presence slowed his own growth considerably.

The Wanna-Be Tree, likewise, never grew as tall and strong as she might have if she had only loved herself a bit more, and him a bit less.

This, of course, was rather a shame for both of them, but to this day her red, silky root is wrapped around the base of his silent trunk.

It is a beautiful root.

The Solitary Foxglove

We regret to report that as beautiful as the Northwest Woods are, there are very few flowers (at least whose names we know) but as it happens foxglove is one of them.

You’ll note the double significance of Solitary Foxglove then, both in the fact of its being the only foxglove in the picture and the only flower we seem to know the name of.

The Solitary Foxglove is notable for its (sometimes) being quite pink, which would not under ordinary circumstances be a disadvantage, but in this case induces a great deal of self-consciousness. As it happens, there has been considerable discussion among certain forest individuals regarding the advisability of being quite so pink. Many seem to believe that by virtue of color alone one is either lesser or better than certain others, which sounds to us at the outset like a frankly illogical proposition. We wonder, what exactly could be the significance of something so arbitrary as... color? With the exception of puce, which has to be one of the more unfortunately named colors we know of, reminding us, as it does, of certain unfortunate rumbly tummy moments, there is no conceivably wrong color. And the color puce itself is actually quite lovely, unlike the ironically beautifully named chartreuse, which actual color makes us want, well, to puce.

The further absurdity of having been demeaned for his pinkness is aptly demonstrated in the photograph below of one of his fellow flowers.



As you can clearly discern (if you were any closer you would be living there) white foxglove is hardly in a position to disparage others of a Different Stripe, what with its own predilection for purple freckles. We view this as a sensible reminder that one must always Consider the Source before taking to heart a Castigating Remark. In our experience, Fine Fellows of either a flora or fauna variety tend not to make the latter, or to take Full Responsibility for insensitivity if such a remark happens to issue forth.

In any event, the Solitary Foxglove got wind of all the prejudice, and, added to his sense of solitariness, was his fear that he was Not Quite Right. This is a condition that is singularly demoralizing for any number of individuals, and not one we would wish upon our Worst Enemies (although we cannot think of any at the moment). Every time we passed the Solitary Foxglove he would hang his many heads in what appeared to be a Certain Despair, or perhaps a Modest Disillusionment, and we would feel quite badly on his behalf.

Most often it is wise to let Nature Take Its Course, but there are those moments when we feel it is necessary to step in and have a Conversation. This was one of them. If we had our druthers (not that we would know them if we met them at breakfast since we have no idea what druthers are and think that they sound particularly in need of a little milk and sugar) we would most certainly have arranged that the Solitary Foxglove immediately be transported to one of the lovely other foxglove patches we would have happily gone to great effort to discover. We could not have done so, however, without removing him from his roots, or “picking” him (not a very felicitous image since noses immediately come to mind) and, anyhow, it is always useful to keep one’s roots in one’s purview, the better to note when said roots are interfering in one’s Inalienable Right to Be Oneself.

So, picking and transporting the Solitary Foxglove to another neck of the woods (do woods really have necks, we wonder?) where he would find company galore, was, of course, out of the question for the reasons above and the fact that it would have resulted in his eventual (if not prompt) demise, which consequence is another useful caution about proceeding with entirely too much dispatch, since wanting to Fix Things without fully thinking them through quite often results in more trouble, if not a visit from the Grim Reaper.



More from him later.

(Just kidding.)

Having discarded that idea then, we were left with what was our original resolve, which was to have a Conversation. Certainly we couldn’t move the Solitary Foxglove, but perhaps we could move him, in the sense of emotionally reassure.

We do not recall all the specifics of the conversation (and it was rather one-sided), but in the main what we urged was that he take Pride in his Pinkness. Pink, though not the manliest of shades, is one of the kindest, and we have boundless appreciation for kindness. It’s quite like our old friend Dennis said, too much is never enough.

Plus, we added, there were others just like him in other necks of the woods (how many necks would a woods need, we wonder?) and although he couldn’t actually see them at present, we hoped he would take some reassurance in knowing of their presence. Then we described to him how wonderful it would be to be surrounded by those who completely understood you (not that anyone ever really completely does) and who, in the very least, would claim you as their own and perhaps even invite you to join in some celebratory activities, such as a parade, or sky-diving, or trips to the aquarium, or… well, perhaps we are getting carried away with ourselves here.



In any event, we said that sometimes, in our experience, there is considerable satisfaction to be had in utterly giving oneself over to imagining in specific detail how wonderful things might be at Another Point.

Well, he did appear to be mildly reassured, as evidenced by a little twitching of his pink, showy, tubular, pendant, and elongated heads (or perhaps that was the wind) and in any event Nature did Take Its Course shortly thereafter, when scores of tiny foxglove seeds were escorted by the wind to what we are certain was soon to be a foxglove-populous elbow of the woods. Solitary ones always find each other, if they seek to.

The Celebration Tree

Chances are you have passed under him yourself and have barely made note. Rather than aspire to the conventional, upright role, the Celebration Tree resolved instead to move laterally in the world, curving in a graceful rainbow arc across the forest path. In this way anyone who traverses that particular path passes under this smoothly arched gate.

In many cultures it is believed that a doorway or a gate is a sacred passage from one space to another. The groom often carries the bride through the doorway to their first home in honor of the transition into marriage. In Japan, Torii Gates,



sometimes simply sitting in the middle of the bay, are much revered, and in many cultures the occasional arched and arbored trellis can be found planted in the random backyard, a gate from nowhere in particular to nowhere in particular, but magical all the same, as shown here,



and here (although we do feel that this one looks rather more like a bus stop).



The Celebration Tree fancies himself as having a similarly resplendent role. As each person (or critter) passes underneath him he cheerfully celebrates the occasion.

Good job, he’ll say. Or, Congratulations, old chap. Or, Nicely done. Couldn’t be prouder.

It doesn’t appear to bother him in the least that his good wishes are never acknowledged in any way by their intended audience. He is simply delighted to have yet another lucky traveler cross the threshold he so gracefully demarcates. The pleasure he feels in their passage is matched only by his own pleasure in his assistance. We think that is what is truly meant by taking pride in one's work, and we seek accordingly to do so as well.