Messages in the trees

By Stacie Charbonneau Hess

The trees don’t care who the president is. I had this thought this morning as I was walking along the wooded path in the forest across from my house. I was bothered by a video I watched last night of people climbing up the Capitol building, intimidating the police, posing in disrespect at a public servant’s desk.

We have since learned it was a siege: insurrection. I walk to process it all. All cannot be right with the world. What kind of place is this going to be for my children? Thoughts like these pierce the edges.

The wooded path is Trustees property, and little did I know when I moved back to my hometown two years ago that this path would become like a sibling to me—available to hear me out, to steer me back on course, to offer me some solid ground.

I have spent countless hours along this path. Most of the time, I am alone with my dog, Sailor. My family is busy in Zoom meetings and I take this time nearly every day. Having a dog is really a gift to yourself in this way—you are encouraged to walk every day, no matter the weather.

At the end of 2020, I came upon a reminder that the path does not just belong to me. One day, I was approaching the path when I saw something hanging on the trees at the entrance. It was a note, secured in a Ziploc bag and nailed to the trunk, written by a nine-year old named Lily. She wrote, “This is a Covid-19 trail. You will see that there are painted shells and rocks along the path. Feel free to take them or just read them. Someone cares about you.” I smiled. Oh Lily, why didn’t I think of that? Here I am always coming to the woods for the solace it brings me, and Lily is here, wondering what she can do for others.

Within a few weeks, all the rocks and shells were gone. They were delightful to read, little pops of color in the drabby forest landscape. But this morning, about a month later, a whole new crop appeared. A large stone perched on a stump said: “Be safe” with a smiley face painted on it. Another said: “Stay hopeful.”

And I am.

The legacy for me of 2020 will be this reconnection with nature. It’s what I want to take into 2021—this meandering in the woods, far away from the internet, the news from Washington, the demands of housekeeping and bill paying and teaching. As much as I appreciate all that I have, I have never wanted to be trapped by my choices, and the woods make me feel free. As I walk, I recognize I am privileged to have the freedom to have both the space to walk and the time to do it in. Friends of mine who are physicians have had anything but a reprieve since March 2020. Some students of mine have never stopped working at nursing homes. They are my heroes and I am in awe of them.

When I am not working or taking care of my family, all signs are pointing toward nature. My family and I spent the holidays in Stowe, Vermont, where again I found myself walking alone, though this time up a mountain and in snow shoes. I keep seeking out the placid, looking for ways to connect, or disconnect. Each vista I discover reminds me of the smallness of my life, the transitory nature of politics, and the lasting, rooted aspect of trees.

While in Stowe, my family and I took a sugar maple tour. We learned to identify the Burdock plant and were told its roots make a lovely tea. We were given rudimentary instructions on tapping our own trees, if we were lucky enough to find maples on our property. We are ordering a field guide and consulting some friends to help. We may as well, I figure. 2020 made us focus in and Mark, my husband, spent a lot of time building refuges for our cast of outdoor creatures: five chickens, a smattering of regular birds at the feeder, and a beehive. Why not maple syrup too?

The fruits of nature, a gift to us just for being here and taking a little bit of care.

As I write this, I realize I am lucky. Having lived ten years in New Bedford, riding out Covid would have looked very different from my secondfloor apartment. I can imagine leaning out windows to say hello to neighbors, and making do with the raised beds that we created alongside the house, and the clawfoot tubs we repurposed into homes for the blueberry bushes. But we would have missed the joy of chickens, bees, and syrup.

All this is to say that I am happier when I spend more time in nature than on Twitter.

All this is to say that I am happier when I spend more time in nature than on Twitter. The birds don’t care who the president is, either. They, like us, seek nourishment. I am curious and concerned about what is going on with the world, in politics, in the spreading of conspiracy theories—but I have to believe that a lot of ills of the world would be remedied if people spent more time looking up at the sky and feeling connected to the universe, by breath and by virtue of their being alive at this moment on earth.

Last night, after reading the news too late in the day, I had to temper the feelings that were stirred in my heart (anxiety, worry, fear, dread) with some poetry. I opened to a poem by Luci Tapahonso, a Diné (Navajo) woman with whom I once took a poetry workshop. It contains the refrain, repeated four times: “Beauty extends from the woman.”

One of the things Luci taught me was to consider the “four directions” in my writing, the way native peoples give thanks in the morning by praying to the east, the south, the west, and the north. I can’t help thinking that here she means that beauty extends from the woman in all four directions… and that the woman is also mother earth.

My reawakened walking habit, then, has served me well. Looking at the trees more than Twitter has helped me to feel rooted in place, given me a sense of belonging and connection, and also of being cared for. The woods are my guardian, the place where I feel connected to my spirit, the place where I feel that God is listening.

The trees will be around a lot longer than our presidents, both past and present, and were around before our country had lines drawn around states and towns, separating us from one another—man’s work and not nature’s intention. I have collected some drab, grey rocks and they are sitting on my table waiting to be painted. Lily, the nine-year-old optimist, has taught me something too.