Puddle: A Tale for the Curious

by Elena "Birch" Bozzi

  It needed a handle. If I poked a thorn through one end of the wand, at a ninety degree angle, I would have something that rotated on its own, as long as I held the thorn part gently enough. After fiddling a bit, my modified dowsing wand was ready to point us in some direction.

  I stood still again, and let intentional thoughts fill my hands. I wasn’t sure what the intention was exactly, but I tried to push it toward something useful on this journey. It was a clumsy compass at first. Puddle and I followed it around and around until something felt like it clicked. We followed.

  Our path ran us into a table laden with piles of stones. I recognized the rose quartz in a wooden bowl, and tree agates in another, like the one Puddle gifted me. The Maple in charge of the stall pointed to some metallic hematite, and said it was helpful to stay grounded and strong. The fluorite helped stay grounded too, and was useful for mental clarity and enhancing intuition.

  I picked up a flat, round, gray and turquoise stone, with a hole through the center.

  “I see you have made a connection,” observed Maple.

  “This one wanted my attention,” I responded. “It looks like it has secrets it wants to tell.”

  Maple nodded in the wavy way of a tree, and said, “It will show you many things. Peer through its center. It will show you that which your regular eyes might not be able to see.”

  I put it to my eye. Everything looked normal. Well, normal enough.

  “I don’t think there are hidden secrets here,” I stated.

  “That is probably quite accurate,” confirmed Maple. “There is little need to hide at Festival. Perhaps the stone needs to go with you, in case you sense something hidden in plain sight.”

  “What would you want for it?” I asked, then offered, “I’m full of carbon dioxide. That could be helpful.”

  The tree swayed in the breeze, thinking. I opened my backpack to see if I had anything else useful with which to barter. I put the tick kit on the table for easier rummaging. Trees don’t have much need for extra socks. I would likely want my warm shirt later. Hmm.

  “What about that jar?” inquired Maple.

  “Huh?”

  “The one on the table.”

  “That’s my tick kit. I guess the jar is a little superfluous because its purpose is to bring the bug back to my world where all the Lyme testing equipment is, and that might not be so possible. Well, ok. Let’s trade.”

  “Deal.”

  “Why do you want this jar?”

  “Glass can be difficult to come by in this world. I make Maple sugar water every spring, and like to share it with my critter friends. Jars are efficient for storing sugar water. They also hold curious bugs to study, similar to your own intention for the jar.”

  “Cool. Thank you, friend. I feel good about this trade.”

  “Agreed. Be well.”

  Puddle and I wandered on. A smooth jazzy sphere drew our attention away from the market and to the long-haired Willow grove across the babbling brook. We hopped across the water on some naturally well-placed rocks, and sat among the welcoming atmosphere of Willows, who were engaged in spoken word and slam poetry.

  *~*

  Spoken Words

  The Willow grove was groovy. I felt cooler by association. Even the air felt saturated with awesome. If I had used my eyes that saw the plane beyond seeing, I suspected the trees would be wearing sunglasses and leaning on things with style. As it was, they were listening intently and encouraging each other with their swishing branches.

  The trees stood in a circle, with the performer in the middle space. Someone was just finishing. The facilitator added a few lines for our sake before introducing another tree.

  “Hey, hey, here’s what we do. Lay down your rhymes, speak up your schemes, and let us know your minds. We welcome prepared pieces or what you can sprout on the spot. We welcome joys and sorrows, observations and perceptions. We welcome all you’ve got.

  “We have some mystery up next from a couple of comrades who listen to the ether of the in between. Snap your branches together for these Willows.”

  I imagined the Willows with their weeping branches as dreadlocks swaying in strange applause. The non-weeping varieties had spikey dreads. Puddle and I sat entranced as the performers stepped to the middle and captured our attention with their words and rhythm. The drums helped keep pace. My heart beat to the pulse of the magic of poetry.

  Wormholes Underground

  Dry leaves spell their names in the wind

  drifting only in their own nostalgia

  lay their transient bodies for renewal

  Their names are immortal

  though only to the wind

  Night crawler sleeks through the ground

  light and dark above

  shreds of leaf mold in between

  forward is backward, yet always onward

  Visions blind as a potato eye

  Hungry mushrooms feed the woodland floor

  their dance circles the midnight meadow

  stargaze and forget an endless cycle of regret

  leaf laughter for the morning glory

  Make your home in the wind

  Haikus

  Xylem strong as life

  Just going with the phloem

  Photosynthesize

  Never feel the bite

  Until a moment too late

  Wiley beaver teeth

  Holding Space

  They’ll try to get you

  Their words push on your branches

  Your roots are strong

  They crack your fingers off one by one

  They want to steal your breath

  Because they’ve forgotten their own

  Their pain attacks you

  Their wounds remember your own

  Your pith shines open to the sun

  Photons mend your cracks

  Your scars heal stronger

  Your breath is steady

  Your knots remember

  The pain they push

  Disguised in shadows

  You know a salve

  Of truth and love

  Invite them to join you

  Your roots, your scars

  You are a serene mirror

  Who reflects permission

  To experience the sun

  The crowd swayed enthusiastically, and we were told we would have a short intermission to absorb the energy created by performance.

  I didn’t always get poems. They could be really elusive, and I’ve had too many embarrassing moments when someone told me my interpretation was wrong. How can an interpretation be wrong? I used my life experiences to connect with the words. I saw those connections as meaning. Would that, then, mean my life was wrong?

  The trees on Veorda created a feeling of safety. They never hinted at judging me. They respected my thoughts and questions, and, in doing so, validated my existence. I felt comfortable going out on a limb and thinking about the words in their poems.

  My ears listened to the cadence and tone of the performers, perhaps even more than the words. Actions and delivery held meaning, too.

  Puddle sat for a moment with a bemused look on his face before he said, “You are a serene mirror who reflects permission to experience the sun. That was the last thing they said. How do you feel about that?”

  I thought, and replied, “To be a mirror, you would have to lean toward being objective in your outlook on a situation. You would have to remove your emotions and think of things as they are. At the same time, the way things are could be so many different ways, with so many interpretations. It’s more of a matter of a way than the way. It would be up to the one looking in the mirror to see what they themselves are, or could be. Maybe to be a mirror means that you walk around with acceptance in your eyes, and others see that. When they see acceptance reflected at them, they feel it for themselves. They feel acceptance, and it feels like the sun.”

  Puddle was quiet long enough to let my words sink in, then said, “Acceptance is a powe
rful way to create a healing space. Even if whatever you are accepting is something you might normally disagree with, because it might be scary or painful, it is where the other person is at that moment. Something brought that person to that spot. Accepting that sort of puts a rock under their feet so they can step forward.”

  I countered, “But what if accepting whatever scary or painful thing about that person is like giving them permission to keep doing that? What if it causes others strife? What if they end up bringing you into their pain?”

  “You might start by defining why you find whatever might be scary as scary. You would have to try to accept them without becoming them. You would have to accept that they are somewhere on their journey, and that you have to stay strong as a mirror without judgments. They would see themselves, and then have a choice. They could start searching for healed and healthy roots to strengthen, or continue growing their pained roots, without that inward journey.”

  “I have another thought about being a mirror,” I said. “What if, when they look at you, they see you? What if they see this accepting person, and think they are an accepting person themselves because that’s what they see in you?”

  “Somewhere in them is an accepting person already,” said Puddle. “Maybe you could help strengthen that by being the force you want to see in the world. Teach what you think is ok by acting that way. Imagine a universal increase in acceptance. Guilt is a natural response to not being accepted. Increase acceptance, decrease guilt.”

  “Life is full of math, like inverse proportions,” I gasped.

  Puddle laughed, “And magic. The results of acceptance can keep spreading, and the healing power is like magic.”

  “What if that person is full of hatred and anger? Would accepting those cause them to accept their hatred and anger, and increase those bad things?” I asked. Then I decided, “That’s a judgment. Those aren’t necessarily bad things. Those are our darkness. Hatred and anger could be useful in keeping a person safe. Outside forces can be debilitating, and anger would push that back. Accepting their anger would give us power over that emotion.”

  Puddle summarized, “We are incredibly complex creatures. We are simple creatures, too.”

  A Willow glided over to us real smooth-like, and asked if we wanted to perform anything. I was feeling bold, and had written a poem about cats a while ago that I secretly wanted to share. I asked Puddle if he wanted to keep a beat while I made some shapes, and we stepped to the center of the circle.

  Mewsing in Mew Time

  Crouched beneath asparagus

  fronds

  chirrup chirrup

  in the night

  I inch closer

  I smell your stink

  chirrup chirrup

  in the night

  Your silence

  at my approach

  awaits

  my claws

  knead soil, knead carpet

  Need your space

  What place have you gone?

  There you are, where you are

  on the other side

  of the double-paned glass

  Where you are, you watch and sit

  I sit and watch

  will you get through

  today, or will you sit and nap?

  Slumber, slumber there

  Slumber all over everywhere

  I lick you

  while you’re sleeping

  in my room

  You taste dusty, you are dusty

  You and I should start battling

  The humans are watching

  You don’t want them

  to get the wrong impression

  of you and I

  The Willows swished praise upon us, and my heart glowed. I’m not often bold or comfortable enough to get up and perform, but the trees created such a beautiful atmosphere. Each one had the intention of supporting everyone around them. They created the community feeling I needed in order to shine out loud.

  The last poet shook its branches, and swayed out of the circle. A Holly shrub shuffled over to announce a meeting that was happening around the grassy knolls on the other side of the Festival. Puddle and I were given a plethora of interesting places to explore nearby, and we followed our toes to wherever they would lead.

  *~*

  Puddle and I leisurely wandered in one of the directions Holly recommended, quietly enjoying each other’s presence. I loved silently sharing space with someone. I also got to hang out inside my mind. Not all of my thoughts easily translated to words, and talking could be tiring.

  My thoughts lingered on the Willows’ poetry. I would have liked to read their words as well as hear them. Seeing the words would let them float through my mind. My eyes could make connections. Sometimes my ears got too distracted to pick up the meaning of words.

  I felt as if I’d spent my whole life waking up. I took sips of coffee from the myriad observations, contemplations, and conversations that crossed my path. I appreciated how poetry condensed ideas and elicited emotions that took time and effort to explore. I liked that even though death took that leaf in the wind, the leaf remained part of the never-ending breeze. What happened in completely still air? Would the sleeping wind still dream of the leaf?

  The low stratus clouds we had seen that morning kept on their quest to cover the sky, but held back whatever drizzle they carried. Our wanderings ran us into the river, where small leafy greens hugged the bank and held the soil in place. We followed the curve downstream to a place where the river lumped out into a pool. My mind map thought we might be near the place we entered Veorda.

  A hill hugged the pool we stopped to explore. My inner amateur geologist concluded the ridge that helped shape the river was a low moraine. The pool appeared to be fed by a spring; it was so clear. The shades of blue in the water could hold one’s gaze for eternity.

  “The spring is deep, and the hill is steep,” I said. “Let’s leap.”

  “Let us first check the temperature,” replied Puddle. “Springs can be quite cold. We would not want a shock.”

  “Eh.”

  The water was warm as a hug from a special person.

  A thought seeped into my brain, like water through porous rocks. I gave it a voice, “I think it’s a thermal spring. It feels like one of those sacred spaces. Let’s not disturb the energy. We can get splashy somewhere else.”

  Puddle agreed, “You are correct. This place appreciates serenity.”

  “We can still sit in the water.”

  “It wants us to.”

  “We can trade our appreciation for a soak, as an exchange of energy.”

  Puddle smiled his approval of this plan.

  If I was playing a videogame, my hearts would have blooped all the way full as we floated through the water. Hermit thrush songs twinkled in the air. Riverbank ferns mingled with moss, and I felt so full that I could just burst with light.

  I drifted alone to the other side of the Oasis. Bubbles that formed in the depths of the spring floated up to tickle my legs. I floated like a semi-buoyant duck filled with a few tiny rocks.

  After a while, I rested my head on a flat stone. My eyes shut out the world for a moment of Zen, and they opened to a couple of green peepers with slitted retinas. The cat’s whiskers tickled my cheeks, and its purr overpowered the song of the thrush.

  “You’re enjoying yourself,” it said.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Looks like you’re doing something very real,” it said.

  “Appreciating my existence?” I ventured. I wasn’t really contemplating much at that moment. In fact, I had zero thoughts happening.

  “May as well. You only have this form for so long.”

  It licked its paw.

  “Your priorities value respect over doing whatever you want,” it added. “I heard your conversation about whether to cause commotion in this spring or not. You are wise to question your consequences.”

  “Thank you,” I said. One rarely receives compliments from cats.
They keep it real.

  The cat flicked its tail. “Watch the ground closely during the next few sun cycles. Closed eyes miss much,” it warned with the common crypticism of cats. I knew better than to dig deeper.

  “Ok.”

  I had experience getting cats to talk. They own the staring contest, unless you half close your eyes several times. That lets them know you love them. Once they know that, they will consider approving of you. I half blinked at the cat, and it brrewled at me, and kept talking.

  “I observed your respect for the unknown here. You would be welcome at the other hot springs in this area. Take Rowaise Pass through the Undoel’ough Mountains. Enter the Hruun Dae springs through the waterfall. There, you’ll find pools that will soothe your past and present.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Trivial trifles. If your next question is will it take a long time, you are no longer welcome.” Cats can be harsh.

  “Oi, sorry. Thank you for the invitation.”

  “That is better.”

  “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  The cat stared at me. If it were any less poised, it would have breathed a breath of exasperation.

  I ducked my face under the water for an instant, and only four footprints remained of the cat when I opened my eyes again. I was left with the feeling that someone, the cat perhaps, said release of control brings true tranquility. Listen, and your questions become answers.

  I smiled serenity, clear as the spring, up to the sky.

  *~*

  The Council

  Most Festival years were used to celebrate life and love, health and healing. Most Festivals planted and fruited wishes and dreams. Most Festivals imbued each participant with energy that they carried with them through the year, so they could create what they wanted to see in physical reality.

  This Festival year had an additional purpose. A new force was upon the land. Its influence was spreading. Concern grew. Action became imminent.

  Any given tree could tap into all the thoughts, and reflections on experiences, of the forest. To do so meant finding a way into a specific plane of existence, and walking through that ever-growing cloud of shapes and colors that made up the thoughts of that species. Certain trees were drawn to hone their ability to walk through that plane. They Listened. That meant they could navigate the needs of their fellows most effectively. These were the ones called to Council. They always gathered when they were needed.