Chapter 2 – A Walk with Red Leaf Too

Little Pine was still a bit gloomy the next morning as his mother served breakfast.   Only one of the red oak leaves remained from the small tree that grew beside him, and Little Pine could see that it might not last another day. 

The remaining leaf was the one that Little Pine had called “Red Leaf Too,” because his jolly disposition reminded him of Red Leaf, Little Pine’s best friend from last year.   He called him “Too” for short.  

When Little Pine finished breakfast, he was surprised to find Too waiting for him.

“Hi, Little Pine!” Too said brightly.  “I think this is my last day here, and I wanted to invite you to go for a walk with me to meet my mother’s cousin,” Too told Little Pine.  Just as trees can move about the forest, leaves can detach from their trees when no humans are watching and romp about the woods. “She lives on the south side of the lake.”   So off they went. 

“What do you think it will be like to go Home, Too?” Little Pine asked his friend as they walked together. 

“Oh!  I remember Home very well, Little Pine.   It’s filled with dancing light and music and more colors than the rainbow.  When we return, all of the returning leaf-spirits attend the Great Gathering to sing and tell stories about their time on Earth.  The little Leaves-in-Training  can hardly believe how amazing it must be to come here, and they study and practice even harder when they return to their schools after the Great Gathering. 

“I’m excited because, after this season’s Gathering, I’ll get to teach the new Leaves-in-Training some of the things they need to know before they can take on an Earth-form.”

He explained that all leaves, even the needles of the evergreens, trained for ages before they were ready for the Earth adventure.   First they learned the things that all leaves have in common.  Then they decided what species they wanted to be first and went through specialized training.

Little Pine wrinkled his brow.  “I don’t remember Home at all.  But it sure sounds interesting, and wonderful.”

“Oh, it is!” Too said, “You don’t remember it because pines get to stay on Earth a long time.  And time covers up our memories.  It’s meant to be that way so you can experience things here without distraction.  I remember because I’ve been many different kinds of leaves and I’ve been here many, many times.”

“I’m going to miss you, Too,” Little Pine said.

“Oh, Little Pine, you know that my spirit will always be with you.  Just like your first leaf-friend, Red Leaf, I will hear all the songs and laughter of your heart.  And sometimes you’ll hear mine as well.

“Listen, I had a dream last night.  I saw the preparations for the Festival of Light, and I can tell you that it’s going to be very special this year.  You’re in for a wonderful adventure.  And I expect to hear much laughter and song from you as I settle in at Home.”

Little Pine didn’t know whether to believe him or not.  But it seemed like a fine story, and he decided that at least he could pretend that it was true.  “Watch for signs,” Too tells him.  “Listen for the music.  And always pay attention to your dreams.”

Just then they reached the edge of the lake, and Too pointed to a scene through the pine branches.  “Look!” he said.  “There’s my mother’s cousin.  See how tall and beautiful she is, with all her remaining red leaves?  And look, there’s a great spruce beside her.   They have been growing here together for many, many years.  And the spruce has had red leaf friends ever since she was very small, like you. 

“You will have red leaf friends all your days, too, Little Pine,” Too said, smiling.  “Always remember that you are a child of the Great Yes, and a part of its song.   And like all of its children, you are cherished and dearly, dearly loved, and all that you every truly need will be provided.”

A Visit from the Elf King

Once again, as December unfolds, I’m pleased to bring you the story of Little Pine and the Festival of Light. Join the beloved little tree as he and his forest friends prepare for their festival in celebration of the beginning of the sun’s return after it’s long journey to the south. This year’s festival is a special one. The King of Elves will be coming, and the forest world is abuzz with excited preparation.

Beneath the excitement, Little Pine and his friends discover the meaning behind the celebration and share their joy in a way that’s sure to touch your heart.

The story begins here. Let Little Pine introduce it, then scroll up for each day’s new tale. Or scroll down for today’s chapter.

Chapter 1 – Friends Forever

It was one of those crisp, cold days that happen in early December when fog fills the morning air and the grasses and leaf-tips are covered in frost.  Little Pine woke early, ate breakfast with his mother, and then set off to play with his oak-leaf friends.

“Remember the Rule, Little Pine,” his mother said as he got ready to go.  “Festival time is beginning and Grandfather Pine sent out the word that humans have been seen at the edge of the woods.”

Rule One, Little Pine knew, was “Never let a human see you move.”  Humans believed that trees always stayed in the same place.  If they saw the little ones running around the woods, it would frighten them, and that wouldn’t be kind.  And all trees everywhere value kindness above everything else. 

“Thank you, Mother.  I’ll be sure to watch for them, and I’ll remind my friends, too.”  He gave his mother a hug and dashed out to play.

His oak-leaf friends were pretty with the frost sparkling on their leaves.  But the sun was already rising in the sky and soon both the frost and the fog would be gone.

“Good Morning!” Little Pine called to his friends.  “Want to play hide and seek?”  And so their day of games began.

By the time Little Pine and his friends returned to their homes after the day’s adventures, the oak leaves were tired.  Little Pine could tell by their colors that their spirits were almost ready to slip from their leaf-forms and return Home.

While they rested against his lower boughs, Little Pine thought about the first friend that the neighboring oak had brought him.   “Dear little Red Leaf,” he mused, smiling to himself.  “What great fun we had!” 

He remembered how a white dove had come to him in his sleep last year to tell him that he and Red Leaf would always be brothers in spirit, and that Red Leaf could hear Little Pine’s songs and laughter across the worlds.

He knew now that was true of all friendships.   Connected hearts stay connected forever. 

Still, it seemed early for these cousins of Red Leaf to go, and Little Pine was a tiny bit sad that he wouldn’t have his dear companions at his side to watch the preparations for this year’s Festival.  “But just think!” he said to himself, “What sights they must see when they’re Home!” 

And he smiled at his resting friends, his heart filled with affection, knowing that they, like little Red Leaf, would be his friends beyond the end of time. 

The Next Act

As if a curtain had been raised to reveal
a whole new setting for the next act
of the play, the field stood transformed.
Gone were the gold and crimson hills.
Gone the goldenrod. In their place,
a wonderland stands, with pale, bare
sycamore branches dancing before
the dark hills with the last russet oaks.
And at their feet, acres of goldenrod,
now dried and white and fluffy as cotton,
paint a view of things to come.
The three of us, laughing, walk through
the billowing stalks and Betsy says
their tops look like the hats that elves wear.

The Pause

The breathing earth sighs in contentment.
This is her season of rest. The ten thousand
leaves have fallen; soon the snow will come.
Beneath the waters, fish find their warm depths.
The creatures of the land snuggle in their burrows.
Everything waits. What comes next is grandeur.
And this, my child, is the great pause.

Between the Holidays

Every year about this time—generally when we go from Daylight to Standard time—I share with friends my conviction that humans are closely related to bears, and that in fact we should be hibernating now. “I want to burrow into my cozy cave,” I tell them, “drift into dreams, and not wake up until the strawberries are ready.”

This year, I’m more emphatic about that than ever. It’s more than the fact that daylight is rapidly shrinking away, that the world has lost its bright autumn colors. It’s more than the coming season of cold and ice and snow. This year, it’s also the fact that, world-wide, chaos is on the loose and tension seems universally sky high.

On some level, it affects us all. And coupled with inevitable pressure and stress the coming holidays bring, it can be a difficult season. It brings exaggerated emotions. For many, it creates a heightened awareness of pain, inadequacy, loneliness and loss.

As I thought about the suffering that so many are enduring, I found myself remembering a piece of wisdom from psychologist and meditation teacher Tara Brach. She pointed out that often, when we’re suffering, we feel very alone in our pain. But in fact, all across the world, countless others are feeling the same kind of suffering we are—and many are suffering even greater pain than ours. Suffering is, after all, a part of being human. At one time or another, in one form or another, it comes to us all.

The remedy she suggests is that we say to ourselves, “This is suffering. Everybody suffers. May I be kind.” It’s a powerful remedy. Recognizing that we’re suffering allows us to open ourselves to experiencing it, to letting ourselves feel it, rather than trying to cover it up or deny it or ‘power through.’ “This is suffering. I am in pain. I hurt.” When we can say that to ourselves, it lets us be authentic and gives us a kind of permission to sit with the pain, to accept it for what it is.

The next phrase, “Everybody suffers,” brings comfort. It opens our well of compassion and allows us to see that we’re united with a great body of others. We’re all in this together. And somehow, that makes bearing it easier. In a season when the ideal is to be vibrant and strong, it takes away the sting of thinking that it’s somehow ‘bad’ to be sick or upset or afraid. It’s not bad. It’s human. “Everybody suffers.”

Then Tara gives us the pathway through our suffering: “May I be kind.” May we be kind, first of all, to ourselves. May we be gentle and forgiving toward ourselves. May we look for ways to comfort and strengthen ourselves. May we nourish and hydrate and rest and move our bodies. May we remember all the good that remains and seek to see the goodness around us.

“May I be kind.” Then, may we have the grace to be kind to others, knowing that they carry burdens, too. May we be gentle and forgiving toward them. May we look for ways to comfort and support them, as well as ourselves.

In the background, songs that sing of good will and good cheer are beginning to float through the air, and despite the season’s dark side, a current of hope and expectation lies beneath it all.

Thinking about all of that made me feel much softer inside, and much more willing to go with time’s flow. In tough times, compassion is the best tool I know. May we kind. May we all be kind.

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Hans from Pixabay

Looking North at Sunset

I glance through the tree house window,
a wave of condensation at its base,
a product of the cold of the late afternoon.
The boughs of the spruce surrender their color
to the shadows, but beyond them a faint light
lingers in the mist, and the distant lavender hills
rise to a soft golden sky. “Self portrait.” The words
float into my mind, the view becoming a mirror.

Bittersweet

This time of year, when the clouds cover the sky
and the nights come all too soon, it can feel
as if all the color has drained from the world.
The summer song of the trees has given way
to their clattering in the cold wind. At my feet,
as I walk this field, only faded, fallen leaves remain.
The brush that surrounds me is brittle and gray
and tangled with burrs and knife-edged thorns.

But if I follow the path and keep climbing,
wound around the trees to the east
I’ll come across a patch of bittersweet vines,
their berries like lanterns gleaming
through the gloom. The old timers say
there’s a legend that if you gaze at them
and listen for what they have to say
they will tell you secrets that fill you
with understanding. “Test it,” they say.
“These lanterns aren’t here for nothing.
It could be that they’re meant for you.”

The Spirits of the Fallen Ones

Softer than breath, the spirits of the fallen ones
rise free, etching on our minds the memory
of their summer days. Oh, how they danced then,
so supple and alive, as green and shining as the breeze.
We thought they would go on forever,
so joyous was their song. Now, as we gaze
at the emptiness of the spaces they once filled,
we are bereft. The world is not the same
without them, nor will it be, ever again.
There’s little but our souls we would not give
to look once more into their faces, to feel their bodies,
warm beneath our fingertips.
But no, the spaces that were theirs are vacant now,
except for this river of tears and the acrid taste of pain.
And how we cling to our anguish, for it’s all we have left,
just this, to fill the unfillable spaces.
Yet, despite our pleas – Don’t take my pain!
It’s all I have now! – eventually the last tear dries,
leaving only the space and its ringing silence
and this late autumn breeze that we would not trade,
so tender and deep is its song.

The View from the Top of the Hill

I have no idea what prompted me to climb
this hill. I haven’t been up here in two years,
maybe longer. But I nearly floated to the top,
entranced by the beauty of it all. And now,
my reward: this view, and look, how perfect
is it that the young family I saw down below
is making the climb. Ha! The littlest one
looks three quarters of a century younger
than I. And here we all are, in this woods,
its song singing all around us.