Redwoods by dorianne laux
The first time I entered a forest
I saw the trees, of course, huddled
together in rings, thin veils of mist
between their branches, some dead
but still standing, or fallen thigh bones
on the desiccated floor, but I also saw
the great buttery platters of fungus
climbing like stepping stones
up their shaggy trunks: tzadee, tzadee,
tzadee, each a different size: small
to large or large to small, as if some
rogue architect had been cocky enough
to install them on the stunned trees’
northern sides, leading up to the balcony
of their one ton boughs. I was here
to investigate my place among them,
these giants, 3000 years old, still
here, living in my lifetime. I should
have felt small, a mere human—petty
in my clumsy boots, burrs in my socks,
while these trees held a glossary of stars
in their crowns, their heads up there
in the croissant shaped clouds,
the wisdom of the ages flowing up
through from root to branchlet ––
though rather I felt large
inside my life, the sum of Jung’s
archetypes: the self, the shadow,
the anima, the persona of my
personhood fully recognized
and finally accepted, the nugget
of my being, my shadow
of plush light. I felt like I was
climbing up those fungal disks
toward something endless,
my birth and death, into my here-ness
and now-ness, the scent and silence
overwhelming me, seeping back
into my pores. You had to have
been there to know such joy,
fear intermingled, my limbs
tingling: ancient, mute.
(C) Dorianne Laux
Begin a poem with the words, “The first time I entered a forest…”
How do you feel when standing in an old growth forest? Do you feel small, or as the poet, do you feel “large inside my life…” Explore your sensations in your journal.
When you think about the “wisdom of ages” flowing up,” what do you think about? What is the wisdom of ages to you? How do you listen for it? How do trees help you access it? Begin a piece with the words, “The wisdom of ages flows…” Follow your stream of consciousness and see what emerges.
