I’ve been reading Sophie Pinkham’s new work of nonfiction, The Oak and the Larch. It’s a study of Russia’s forests over the centuries. Trees tell stories and Pinkham had me immersed in the complicated history of Russia’s relationship to them. Sometimes the forests were friends, for example, when they slowed down the Mongol invasion. Other times they were to be cut down and exploited. And still some surived. She writes, “Some of the centenarian lindens still remembered the farms that had once dotted the landscape. Only trees had such long memories.” (p. 222)
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| An old linden remembering? In front of the former secret police centre in Zhytomyr, Ukraine, site of my grandfather's 1937 interrogation and execution. |
After reading her book, I found myself yearning to be amongst our local trees here in Manitoba. The opportunity to meander alone through some wet urban woods just the other day was a welcome way to recharge after a difficult week. In between moments of silence, I heard birds chirping and frogs croaking. Wildlife, including deer, rabbits and squirrels, stared at me as if daring me to come closer.
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| Along a trail in the Assiniboine Forest |
A small, yellow splotched bird skipped ahead of me, determined to lead me on. I spotted wild strawberry flowers and everywhere bright green spurts of new growth. It’s happening—again—spring. I’m grateful for the natural settings in our city and for the resilience of trees. Leaving the woods, I felt calmer and more at peace with myself and the world. They truly are our friends.
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| Can you find two deer? |
So many stories growing in a forest. Joyce Kilmer said it best: “I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.”
