Puddle: A Tale for the Curious

by Elena "Birch" Bozzi

  His hand rested on the stone. It told him to take a pebble from around the perimeter of the Circle. The pebble could be a source of strength in a time of need. He decided to trade it with one he had with him, as an exchange of energy. And he let his worries go.

  *~*

  The Birches were slowly squeaking at each other in the language of trees and breeze, which I haven’t been able to master since the time when I was a tree myself. I used to photosynthesize more than just Vitamin D. My mind went giddy as it took its time fully internalizing that fact. I wondered where exactly my Birch tree body stood.

  I stood around, blending in as much as possible. I didn’t want to interrupt. I thought about swaying too, but since I didn’t know the language that well, I was worried about accidentally swaying something offensive. Then I thought, maybe it was offensive to stand around really still. Maybe it was boring!

  No. Trees knew stillness. Trees could read the intentions that made up actions. I just had to be patient. Trees liked patience.

  Just as I settled into patience, the trees finished their creaking conversation. Funny how that worked. Once you figured it all out, it changed.

  “Come, get into one of our branches,” greeted the Birches.

  I looked up and around, but the nature of Birch growth did not lend itself to curved sitting nooks. They were also difficult to climb because their branches start so high up. One tree stood by a pile of climbable rocks with a branch at a fairly satisfactory angle for sitting. It might only make one leg fall asleep. I went for that one.

  “Birches are for beginnings,” began the Birches in their unified voice. “We protect newborns when their cradles are made of our boughs. We create humus in harsh areas for other trees to set root. We set ground for making changes. If you need your life to change direction, come to us.

  “We can help travelers return home if they are lost. Home is a safe and comfortable place. Thus, home might be different than the place you were born. That place is physical, and could be anywhere along your eternal journey. This home we speak of is a place that is beyond placement. It is your origin. Your beginning place is free of pain and disease, and you return there to return to a state of complete wellbeing.”

  I wanted to interrupt to ask if, in an energetic sense, we were really all One. Was Oneness our origin place? If we broke off from that Oneness to have an experience on a physical plane, would the Oneness be where we returned. Or, were there many origin places that weren’t exactly places where we could return? Or, if that origin place could be anywhere, on a different plane of existence, could we reach it any time? I wondered if one got a nice cup of coffee after waking up from that placeless place. But I didn’t really want to interrupt.

  The trees continued with a story, “One stormy evening, a farmer heard a knock on her door. A ragged stranger shivered on the porch. The farmer immediately brought the stranger to the hearth fire and offered a bowl of thick potato stew. The stranger ate with the eager mouthfuls of someone who has known hunger. The farmer offered a soft bed of straw out in the barn for the night, and the stranger accepted, with the behest that should the farmer find herself alone and lost, knock on a Birch, and ask if the Crooked One was home. The stranger was gone when the farmer went to the barn the next morning.

  “Years later, the farmer was traveling while her fields were sleeping through winter. Somewhere, she took a wrong turn and found herself lost. The feeling of being completely alone came over her. She liked the feeling of being alone, but this time it came with devastating loneliness. She kept walking, with tears on her cheeks, and wandered into a Birch forest. She remembered the stranger's advice. She knocked on the nearest tree, and asked if the Crooked One was home.

  “The stranger appeared, and gave the farmer the most sincere smile and hug the farmer had ever known, and she had seen sincerity in her days. All of a sudden, the farmer was back in her hometown, holding a warm bowl of potato stew, with old friends in snow boots walking toward her.”

  A respectful silence stood with us as the story ended, because stories liked to sink in and feel appreciated without words. The farmer’s home was with her land and her friends. I missed my garden and my plant friends, and was glad to be in another well-loved land with tree friends.

  Perhaps we were lucky if we belonged in more than one place. I loved my people parents and blood relatives. I loved my tree parents and sap relatives. I loved my friends and forests. Being with any of them felt like home.

  After a moment, I thanked the trees for the story. I felt my question of whether we came from one origin place or multiple origin places was less relevant. The point was, we all had at least somewhere where we belonged. Hopefully we could find it in any and every lifetime.

  The other Birches and I relished in life and togetherness for the rest of the early afternoon. We told stories about when we felt like we belonged, and when we felt excluded. We discussed the immense power of helping someone feel included. Eventually, shadow angles alerted me to the time, and I hurried to meet Puddle for the Willow’s workshop.

  *~*

  One Wreet nudged another, who paused in the Purpose to bob its head at the nudger. The nudger lunged at the bobber, who sidestepped and lunged back. Other Wreets joined in the lunge-sidestep melee. Dust rose from their footsteps as they leapt and challenged each other with head bobs. Their play brought bumps, but no bruises. The point wasn’t to hurt. The point was to play.

  To mature does not mean to stop playing. Maturity does not equate to seriousness. Maturity means making mindful choices, taking responsibility for conscious and unconscious actions, and problem solving without going into a fit. It also means noticing and celebrating love and joy, life, health and healing. To play, the kind where winning wasn’t an option because the goal was to connect, was to heal.

  The Wreets played. Their games broke through any loneliness that might have seeped in while they performed their Purpose. Their games were strength.

  *~*

  Puddle and I joined a grove of saplings that surrounded an old Willow, whose dreadlocks reached the ground. A pile of leaves waited patiently on the ground, among the Willow’s dreads.

  “Good afternoon, friends,” began the Willow. “Welcome. Let’s bring our energy into this workshop. Take a moment to rustle your leaves at someone you don’t know very well.”

  I shook my hair at Puddle first, because I knew him and was comfortable with him. Then I looked over at a Maple, and shook my hair in that direction, while it shook its leaves back. We didn’t need words, which, in a way, made me more comfortable. The wordless introductions were effective. After a few more introductory shakes between various saplings, the air in our grove felt more like home.

  “We’re here to practice intuition,” continued the Willow. “More specifically, we’re here to work on seeing hidden objects. Trees use this technique to help communicate across forests. This might come easily to you, or it might be difficult. Some of you might already have had much practice. All ways are ok. Each of us is part of the whole, and contribute as such.

  “My advice is, it works better the less you try. Trying gets in the way. Trying is sometimes too full of eagerness, anxiety, and potential disappointment to really feel the flow. Trust yourself. Let yourself be still, and your mind be open. Refocus any time you try to compare yourself to anyone else, or to yourself. Be patient with your ability.

  “There is an object beneath these leaves. Focus on your transpiration, your breath, a moment. Focus on the flow within your xylem. Greet any thought that comes in your mind, and then let it sift back out. You are safe here. Allow any sounds to happen. Notice them with the edges of your perception. Let those sounds, or smells, exist, and refocus. If you have eyes, close them. Send your attention to the pile of leaves. What impressions do you get? Think silently to yourself. Then we can share.”

  I sat with my breath slow. It filled my innards, then left again. Bees hummed nearby. A breeze hugged my back. I put my hands near the sides of my he
ad, as if I was putting on a fishbowl space helmet. Immediately, my mind felt a barrier for distractions with the action.

  I sent my attention toward the leaves.

  Impressions of crinkles and dust wandered through the space between my consciousness and unconsciousness. The surface leaves. Not far enough.

  I felt grainy darkness, and immense time and mass. The soil. Too far. My knee tickled. I scratched it and refocused.

  I saw gray and black behind my eyelids. I felt the impression of lumps and scratches. My mouth tasted a little like tin. Maybe it was metal under the leaves. A lumpy piece of metal.

  The willow chimed a twinkly bell to bring our attention back, and said, “Ok everyone. What did you experience? Discuss with a plant near you.”

  “I saw acorns,” said Puddle, “and felt like I was leaping through trees.”

  “I tasted metal,” I said. “Well, not tasted tasted, but, well, tasted. Metal. Something metal.”

  The Willow brushed the leaves away, and there sat a pewter statue of a squirrel.

  “We are a good team,” said Puddle. I smiled in agreement.

  The Willow gathered our attention again, and said, “Reading minds is a fundamental part of being a forest. That’s how we communicate, for the most part. The more we practice, the better we become. When we’re really good, we speak with one voice and individual voices at the same time.

  “Now, turn to the partner you were talking with just a moment ago. Decide who thinks first and who reads first. The thinker should then pick a categorycolors, animals, things that fly, and so onand let the other know. Then, hold an image in your mind. Try sending it to your partner.”

  “We did this by the bridge,” I said.

  “Let us practice more,” Puddle replied. “I enjoy this.”

  “Me too.”

  *~*

  Another Game

  Mae walked around to Birch’s backyard. She stopped bothering knocking on the door after her last encounter with Shari. The families had been friends for so long that she was fine coming over whenever, but she didn’t want to deal with any potential grumpiness at the door. Her intentions were to check on Birch’s garden. Her friend would appreciate that.

  The garden was looking grumpy itself. The plants were growing over each other. They looked like they were trying to steal each other’s sunlight. Aphids had taken over the cabbage, and no ladybugs were in sight to keep them in check. Tarragon was looking droopy and depressed, while some dandelions told it to get a little tougher. Sage looked like it was ridiculing the lavender, who was acting superior over some marigolds, who were talking behind bergamot’s back in order to prove that they could be superior too. The bergamot had fallen over and was struggling to get back on its feet.

  Mae looked at the plants with dismay in her frown. Elsie and Kail slammed the door as they ran out of the greenhouse.

  “Mae!” yelled Elsie. “The geraniums are being mean.”

  “What?”

  “One of them fell off the shelf and landed on my foot.”

  “Are you ok?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Let’s go clean it up.”

  As they swept up the mess, Kail held a coin out to Mae.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Angry thing.”

  “This is a coin, Kail. Coins aren’t angry,” Mae thought about it, and added, “They can sometimes make people angry, though.”

  Mae took the coin from Kail, and it buzzed in her hand. Her vision blurred for a second. She felt ready to react to anything and everything, but pushed that emotion aside. It went to sit nearby and waited for another opening. Reactions were like that.

  “Where did you find this?” she asked.

  “Birch. Room.”

  “You got it out of Birch’s room, eh. She might not like that.”

  “Sad.”

  “You miss your sister,” Mae affirmed.

  Kail nodded. Mae was suddenly angry that Birch had disappeared, but pushed that emotion aside as well. Anger wasn’t going to find Birch.

  “Let’s put it back in her room,” she said. Mae also wanted to poke around to see if there were any clues as to where her friend went.

  Birch’s olive and lavender walls calmed Mae’s nerves. She picked up a book about biodynamic companion planting. It was intriguing, but had nothing suspicious. None of the various rocks, sticks, or watercolor paints scattered about held clues as to Birch’s whereabouts.

  Kail pointed to an open box with birds painted on the sides, from which sage leaves had spilled out on the desk.

  “There,” he pointed.

  Remnants of her desire to react and her anger at Birch’s disappearance dissipated as the lid closed over the coin. Mae stepped backward, and tripped over a djembe. Maybe Birch ran away to join a traveling band. She had often talked about getting out of town as soon as she graduated. Why would she ever leave when she was so close? If something was wrong, why hadn’t Birch come to anyone for help? Didn’t she know she was loved? Didn’t she know she’d be missed? Mae decided to trust her friend. Birch would come back when she was ready.

  “Come on,” said Mae. “Let’s go back out to the garden.”

  *~*

  Evening came upon us quickly. Puddle and I, absorbed in practicing reading each other’s minds, were surprised to see the wild roses across the sky when we finally looked up. We heard the drums, and smelled something wonderful, with just the right amount of spicy.

  Our noses brought us to a potluck at the drum circle.

  “We didn’t bring anything,” I said, ashamed.

  “It’s ok,” was the response. “The single Sunflower is held up by the bunch of Marigolds. We all take turns being the Sunflower. There is enough.”

  The rough wooden table held juicy portabella on mung bean noodles, gnocchi with pesto, savory roasted beets, and a stir fry of variously colored peppers and onions. Someone made persimmon and pear bread for dessert. We feasted, and discussed how we should dance with Purpose again. This dance was for our far-reaching sight, our mind connection, our intuition.

  The drums found our souls, like they did every night. Puddle’s eyes locked with mine. He had smiles in his eyes. We circled the fire, aware of our surroundings just enough to not trip over anything. Our feet stomped simultaneously, and our fingers wove designs of wild animals in the air. I felt full to bursting with life, and knew he felt the same. You could read it in the smiles in his eyes.

  *~*

  The day dawned with a breakfast of cucumber slices, goat cheese, bread, and honey. It was a slant rhyme of a morning, though. The evening was glorious, but the air of the morning was heavy and off-feeling, like the carton of milk that may or may not have gone bad yet.

  The ground was a little too uneven. I kept tripping over nothing, so I blamed it on ruts. The sun was too sunny. So what if it was behind clouds? The clouds were too full of themselves. Floating all around up there in the sky. I wanted to yell at the sky for being there.

  My mood did not make sense to me. I had loved every moment from stepping into that puddle on Earth to the smiles in Puddle’s eyes last night. What was wonky? I decided I had to go on a walk by myself after the meeting at the Stone Circle. A turtle watched me from the top of a log. Jerk.

  *~*

  The Wreets fake-worked all morning. They did a little Purpose here and a little Purpose there, but finished nothing. They scraped soil just to scrape, and dropped seeds in the wrong spots. They bumped into each other in less than their usual affable manner.

  The Wreet that liked to wander wandered off. It cursed the birds in the sky, which was a new thing for a Wreet to do. Something scared it, but it didn’t know what. The unknown something felt close. The Wreet sensed the air with its feather ears. The air felt crackly.

  It kept wandering.

  The cave was more like a giant hill made of rock that slanted inward, with monster eyebrows of trees that grew down and then curved skyward. A waterfall dripped into a muddy po
ol, secretly populated by fish, but it was too muddy to tell.

  The Wreet cared for none of this. It just wanted to go somewhere it felt safe. It hid behind a boulder in the cave to wait out the day.

  *~*

  Puddle and I joined the Council at the Stone Circle. They were the trees with the most practice at reading each other's minds, and could easily keep tabs on what the others of their species thought. The air was crackly.

  Hawthorn began the meeting, “We decided to wait to choose an action concerning the grassy invasive species. We needed time to think about our thinking and consider multiple solutions. What options might be brought to the circle?”

  Walnut posed the first potential, “I could walk near them. The juglone in my roots would inhibit their growth.”

  Pine added, “I’ll drop some needles there, too. Their acidity would inhibit them as well.”

  “I could block their sun to block their photosynthesis,” put in Cedar.

  Pawpaw, master of the drum circle said, “What if we trample their ground and compact the soil near them so their roots would get stuck?”

  “I can soak up the water near them. Thirst would slow them down,” chimed in Willow.

  “We could extract some toxic saponins from my berries,” suggested Holly. “They’d get sick and then get on their way.”

  Apple, chief chef, clearly uncomfortably choked out, “We could deprive them of food.”

  I saw how hurting these grassy things, whatever they were, hurt Apple, which hurt me. I asked, “Why do these things need to go away?”

  Hawthorn said, “They’re invasive. They take space and resources.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s rough.” I didn’t have a better solution. I wanted my friends to thrive.

  Oak posed, “How about fire? We can have a controlled burn in the area. The ashes will result in fresh land.”