Brother Pine Speaks
By Niall Twohig
Oh, you sitting under my branches, you who move so fast to and fro, you who measure time in quarters while I am marked by seasons upon seasons upon seasons. Seasons before you came to be. Seasons long after you cease to be. You are to me what a blink is to you. Fleeting. You are to me what the roly-polies are to you. Miniscule.
But today you sit as I sit: still, quiet, no effort stolen from simply being. So, I honor that in you. Your stillness, today, sets you apart from the quick-footed. It reminds me that you are my kin. As kin, I give you these lessons drawn from bark and root:
Don’t fret about things man makes to seem big. They are not big to me. They need not be so big to you.
Don’t forget your underground parts. Forgetfulness comes from your legs. Limbs that allow you to move from place to place. I don’t envy you for that, for those legs force you to forget your roots. But what are we without roots? Withered and easily bent by wind.
Shed old bark when it’s ready to go. You’ll know when it’s time when it becomes soft, heavy, and smells of rot. The fresh bark underneath needs exposure to become tough and sturdy. And that too will need to be shed in time.
Let Nature set your rhythms. Nature gives us light when we need light. Dark when we need dark. Man’s silly clocks and calendars turn time into strange measurable units that keep you from light, that keep you working long into night. Why move at a false rhythm that saps, that fattens false things off the energy drained?
Let branches fall. Let leaves fall. What you see as an end, I feel as a return.
So, today as we part, take my wisdom with you. It has been shaped by a timespan you will never know. But the fact that you can sit like me shows that you can see like me, that you can live like me. We are kin, after all.