painting by Charles Stevenson
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"Conversations with Grandmother Redwood"
published in hard copy by Cypress House
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Conversations with
Grandmother Redwood
by Bonnie Sanger
(The complete manuscript)
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In the early seventies I was struggling to escape the prison I had constructed for myself. I was a single mother with my daughter Kelly, 18, still at home and my son, Roy, then 21, living in Santa Cruz with his best friend Debbie. I worked as a secretary shuffling papers in a thirty-story building in downtown Oakland for a huge corporation, commuting from my home in semi-rural Walnut Creek, putting in too many hours for too little pay to quite cover our expenses.
I was so drained from the maddening commute, the uncertainties of my job and the job market in general, the stress, the anxiety, the struggle to pay the rent, that when I got the chance to be laid off I took it and never went back. Couldn’t drive that commute one more day.
Kelly and I talked it over and agreed that we wanted to just get out of the Bay Area altogether. I knew of a place up on the North Coast that had some funky cabins to rent, and I wanted to go up there for a little while and just vegetate until a new direction made itself known to me.
The next weekend we set off with our sleeping bags, cots and cooler, camp stove and lantern and went looking. The cabins were all taken but the owner suggested we could camp at Usal free -- it was owned by Georgia-Pacific but they allowed people to stay there if they got a pass from the company’s offices in Fort Bragg.
We found Usal. Our entry that first day is indelibly imprinted in full color in my memory. We had just driven on to the cattle guard at the entrance when I saw a fawn in the bushes by the side of the road, staring at us without a move. I stopped immediately and looked directly into her unalarmed, alert brown eyes. Just for a few brief seconds. She was only five feet away from us. She seemed to feel no fear, only curiosity. Nobody moved for a long time ... She had examined our hearts and given her permission for us to enter. Eventually she turned and slowly wove herself back into the forest ... Finally, we remembered to breathe.
Usal has given me many such moments, but that first time removed most of my fears about our future. It was a holy place, anyone could tell that. I knew we’d be all right there. Even though there had once been a town there long ago, complete with a hotel, saloons, a mill, quite a few homes, there was little or no sign of that previous life by the time we got to Usal in 1973. Lovely reminders of previous residents were the jonquils planted around now nonexistent homes whose shapes were still outlined by the bright gold of blossoms each spring.
We saw no one in that entire valley on our first visit -- there were no human footprints in the sand, although there was evidence of an old campfire here and there. There was a lovely creek running through which fed into a larger, fast-moving stream; the water was ice cold and delicious. We’d be all right.
We spent the weekend in paradise and headed back home to pack up. We held garage sales for three or four weekends and sold or gave away everything we couldn’t fit in the car. We sold Kelly’s car and kept mine because it was bigger and could hold more. We bought some foam pads to sleep on, a tent. We fit everything we owned into that car. What money we had left we split three ways: Kelly, Roy, and me. That was their inheritance and it wasn’t much, but it was clear money and we didn’t owe anything to anyone in the whole world. We were starting fresh; Roy was already following his own path; Kelly and I were looking for ours.
Back in the seventies, traveling Usal Road in a loaded-down car was a death- defying journey. “Brunhilda” was rather low to the ground, for one thing. There was a detour section I can still hardly bear to remember. We had to slalom safely past clearly impassable potholes. There was one spot where the road dipped down rather steeply then rose up immediately. It was covered with a thick layer of sand and powdered clay soil which lined the dip and covered both the down -- and up -- sides. You had to have a lot of momentum to make it up the other side of the dip, but if you went too fast you could break your muffler, among other things. Each trip over that narrow twisting road was traumatic for the car as well as the passengers. The risk of getting stuck was real -- who knew when another car would come by?
But I made it every time. I loved the isolation that terrible road achieved for us. Very few people braved it. It was used on holidays a couple of times a year by people living in the area; a few fishermen would attempt the road every now and then when the surf fish were running.
My four years living in my tent at Usal gave me many riches that I could never adequately measure. It is the gift of my friendship with Grandmother Redwood that I wish to tell you about now.
Of all the treasures I received from Usal, Grandmother Redwood is my most loved. She taught me, and continues to teach me, that which I am most hungry to learn. Here follows a record I began to keep of all our talks together. I always bring paper and pen with me when I visit, in case she will speak. I don’t want to forget any of it.
Autumn, 1978
“The first time I remember really seeing you, Grandmother, it was summer in Usal, three or four years ago. I was living alone in my tent under the alders by the creek that runs through the daisy meadow and I saw you above the road that had been cut through beside you. Because the earth had eroded over the years, your roots had been exposed on that side. I could tell you had been cut down long ago because your saplings were almost a foot across. There was a lovely wild elderberry growing out of your side and you were covered with ferns.
“Something about you drew me. The blackberries made it hard to reach you. Although I felt foolish as I stealthily looked around to be sure there was no one in sight, I still was compelled to lean against you with my arms stretched out around you. I wanted to sink into you. I pressed one ear tight against your side and covered my other ear and listened. I made myself very still ....
“After a lingering silence I seemed to hear a long slow sigh floating up from deep within you. It was infinitely weary, infinitely patient, infinitely ancient, that sigh. It was dark in there, dark with time and waiting and calm endurance.
“Then I was filled with a gentle current of kindness that flowed down from you to cover me. I rested gratefully in your kindness. No words, but I knew we would speak together one day.”
Summer, 1982
Grandmother said to me, “Listen, little one, for now I begin to understand after many weary years of questioning. Why was I cut down so young, before I had a chance to grow to my full span of years? I have waited a long time to know this. The lightning that burned me never felt like an attack; it was what lightning did. But the terrible sound of saws, then later chain saws, is hard to forget. I find myself flinching still.
“Then at last it came to me; it came to me just now as you stood before me and said softly,’ Oh, Grandmother’. It came to me. I could feel your reverence, your love, your sorrow, your sympathy.
“I want to tell you. This place is a temple. All of it. Can you hear the birds singing high, high up in the sunlight? And are your eyes dazzled by the daisies warm in the meadow? And the wind high in my tall children’s branches, singing of salt and sea and gulls sliding downwind? I see the dappled alders across the way, graceful, swaying, showering polka dots of light and shadow among the daisies. Of course this is a temple. It is so easy to recognize here.
“But, my dear, the whole earth is the temple, not just some special places. The whole earth is the temple. Remember this; tell the others: You must stop and think. You must love and honor your temple. You must remember where and what you are: you are living in and are yourself a part of the temple. You are the priest and priestess, you are the attendant, you are a pillar of the temple. Would you cut off one of your own arms or legs for profit? Some of you have done this to the earth, your home.
“But lately I feel there is change coming. Even though the madness of the world seems to be rising, so too do I receive more visitors who come like you to open their hearts to me. These are the courageous who will save the temple, and their numbers will grow. So I am content. I know your heart, little one; you will continue to watch and listen and do what needs to be done.”
Spring, 1983
“Oh, Grandmother, today as I stood off a little and looked at you with your young ones around you, in my mind’s eye I saw you as you must have looked in the full height of your growth: tall, strong, glowing with spring juices and health. I thought for a moment that you were still whole, before they cut you down. I could not see your wounds for all the green growing plants surrounding you. Your saplings, your young children already forty or fifty feet tall; the ferns, vines, berries, mosses thriving on your outer bark; all the movement, the life still flows around and through you. You are not dead and burned; you are alive! Thank you for letting me see this, Grandmother.”
November, 1984
“I am sad that I cannot be with you today, Grandmother. But I cannot get over the mountain now until the rains stop. Still, I can see you in my heart, both as a tall young tree and as you are now, old and much harmed by man as well as by storm and fire. Even so, your strong spirit radiates from you to me and I feel your love and concern. Yes, there are bad things happening all over the earth, but there is good too, on all sides; in the most unlikely places I hear of more and more people who are questioning and changing their own lives, trying to find their own truth. And, as for me, I am grateful to be able to talk with you like this and to hold you in my thoughts when I’m away from you.”
Spring, 1985
“Oh, Grandmother, I am very happy to visit you again, and to see you looking so beautiful. The rains have washed off all the dust and your new green ferns are looking so bright and healthy!”
“But then why, if you are so happy, why do I sense tears waiting to fall? What is wrong?”
“My spirit hurts, Grandmother. I am seized with a painful homesick feeling. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed all of Usal. The sunsets, the seals, all of it: the trees, the creek, ferns, sand, beach, rocks, birds, green mosses, quiet walking people (if any) and under and over it all the deep hum of the ocean, the waves on the shore, the sun on the water. I am grieving.
Summer, 1985
“I remember now, Grandmother. I have known you before. A thousand years ago I revered you as I do now. When you were young I knew you were holy. I was born under your protective branches. My love and I first held each other right here where I stand today. My child was born here. My life at that time was directed toward healing as it is now. I came to you then as I come to you now, to remember who I am, to rebuild my strength, to receive mirrored back to me all that I love and value and honor. Once again, Grandmother, thank you.
“You are beautiful this morning, especially so because there is a new flower blossoming over your roots. Besides the ferns, foxgloves, sticky monkey flowers, blackberries, poison oak, rye grasses, you now have a tall plant with small bullet-shaped blossoms that are red on the end and bright yellow on the stem end. Lovely.”
Fall, 1985
“Grandmother, you look very different this fall. I’ve never seen this much of you. All the flowers and ferns and grasses have gone to sleep again, leaving you visible. You are very beautiful to me, Grandmother. The color of your bark: all the variations of warm grey, silver, cream, umber; you may even turn all the way silver soon. How beautiful you are in all your changes!
“Today as I was driving over the mountain to visit, a bright sharp sentence rang in my ears: ‘When I die, bring my ashes to Usal. Give them to Grandmother Redwood and to KT Faun’s campfire.’”
March 19,1986
“Oh, Grandmother, I can hardly see you today. Your children are growing so tall and they are all around you. I wonder, Grandmother, are your children your eyes and ears up there so high? Do they tell you of the stars and the bright yellow sun and the clouds over the sea? Do you hear with their ears or even with mine, Grandmother? I can be your eyes and ears down here below you. Do you hear the far-off tales the wind tells? Hear it sighing, singing, roaring, exulting, racing along shouting, It’s spring! It’s spring! It’s spring! It really is, at last, Grandmother. You are wearing a small bright green fern today. Surely that’s a sign, hmmm?”
Spring, 1986
“I feel like your dearly loved child when I visit you, Grandmother. You and your children have some new flowering plants this year: there is a lovely blue ceanothus blooming, so sweet its perfume, and you have a wild grape trailing across your trunk.
“It is a blessing for me to see you today, the first day of spring, vernal equinox, March 20, 1986. Thank you for enriching my life.”
August, 1986
Grandmother told me, “You need to bring Usal home with you -- you don’t have to come here to be here, you need only remember it and you can be with me every day if you want. We wait for you to remember. This is your place, your heart’s true home, your strength; it is in you and it is the earth’s gift to you as you are its gift to us. It holds you here. It feeds you. It is embedded in your being; it is not outside you. Don’t you remember when you forgot for days at a time if you were a leaf, a bird, the brook, or -- a human?
“Just as our roots are nourished deep in the earth and our crowns are haloed in the light of the sun and moon, so are you. Just as the earth mother holds us, feeds us, and strengthens us, just so for you. But you know all this -- you just needed to be reminded.”
October 15, 1986
I had to ask: “Grandmother, will you forgive me, can you ever forgive us for what we have done to you? Your scars pierce my heart; I ache for you. You are so beautiful; I love you and cannot bear it that one of my kind has so wounded you.”
Grandmother replied: “Stop your whining. To me you are the same as the lightning that ignites the fire that burns the forest. Does the lightning ask me to forgive? It is an event, nothing more. All I know is, I am awake now . I think I will sleep again one day, then wake again. But I know no more than that. Therefore, I do not understand your question.”
February 26, 1987
Grandmother said to me, “Little one, I see your tears, I hear you cry for me, and I think perhaps that is why you found me, so that through your love I can remember -- not all humans wish to harm me. Those who cut me down were not evil, only lacking information. It never occurred to them that they were harming a living being -- they thought that because I am not human, I do not feel. Is that not strange?
“For a long, long time I thought all humans were alike. The pain stretched the threads of time until I began to heal. Then my children grew up around me and shielded me, the mosses and ferns covered my scars, and life returned around me once more. And then you came and touched me and spoke softly to me. Your tears revived me; I am hopeful now that all humans will learn to live on this earth with love and gratitude, taking only what they need, honoring the needs of others.”
Vernal Equinox, March 20, 1987
Grandmother asked me, “Would you like me to tell you about the time you stood beneath me and received the headband which identified you as shaman? It was a long time ago and I was only 500 or 600 years old as we reckon time. You longed for wisdom even when you were a very young child. You pestered your father, who was the medicine man for your tribe, to teach you the chants and proper sequences of drum beats, and the herbs and potions with which he treated the sick. You were very daring but he could not doubt the truth of your visions. And so he taught you.
“You were a happy child, eager and willing. As long as it was connected to your desire there was nothing you would refuse to attempt. While I watched you grow I worried about you too, because your desire was almost too strong. I did not know if you could learn to balance your desire with the needs of others. And so I worried.
“But when you came to me and confessed your secret fears and doubts, I knew that much of what I had thought of as too much desire was only your attempt to balance your fear. And so I gave you a sign.
“Remember the day you found the perfect heart-shaped piece of burl at my roots? You carried that gift, polished by years of rubbing, all your life. And it went to the fire with your body when your spirit left. Do you remember?”
April 11, 1987
“You are glorious today, Grandmother, the brilliant sun dappling you on this sweet day. But, oh, no! I absolutely cannot believe my eyes or my ears -- they still hurt from the racket of five balloon-tired all-terrain vehicles roaring down the dry riverbed. God, they are loud! Oh well, Grandmother, another day, another challenge! When I look at you I do remember, they cannot destroy you. You are strong.”
Grandmother: “This too will change, like everything else. It will not last.”
“Yes, I know, Grandmother. And your children will be able to endure. It gives me hope to see them standing all around you.”
July 17, 1987
“Oh, Grandmother, today I feel like an anachronism, an artifact of Usal’s past, like you years ago, like the Enchanted Forest. They’re cutting down the big trees left on the ridge over the south canyon. The chain saws, the motors grinding and the awful crump in the earth when another tree falls -- it hurts most grievously.
“I cannot put up my tent here today. Usal has been raided again. There are logs across old paths, the cows are gone. The grandeur is contained -- outhouses spring up here and there, picnic tables are chained to the ground, dumpsters remind one and all to be tidy.
“The message is, ‘Usal belongs to the State now, and these are the rules. Everybody who wants to camp here must pay. You eat at the tables and relieve yourselves in the outhouses. There are no designated walking paths yet but there will be soon.’ Well, that’s the way it is now, Grandmother. I suppose the rules are to protect what’s left. It’s true, no more can the dirt bikes, four-wheel-drive trucks, all-terrain vehicles tear up the hillsides and torment the ears of everyone in the valley. That’s a definite improvement! Now if the State’s chain saws and bulldozers would just go away, it might feel like home again. But what about the loggers? Who protects the trees from them?”
January, 1989
Grandmother Redwood’s roots are 6 - 8” across and they are very gnarly and twisted; they don’t just go straight down like a carrot. I can’t draw it, but there are all these fine hair-like roots throughout the soil too. Grandmother’s roots support all her children who surround her. Their roots wrap and twine around hers, and even though her upper body was cut off many years ago, she is still connected to the young trees circling her. She enriches the soil which supports them.
You’d think the soil would get root bound but, no, there’s lots of space down there. When you look through a microscope at a single drop of water, you can see how much empty space there is in that drop -- it’s the same way down in Grandmother’s roots.
Fall Equinox, 1993
My visit with Grandmother Redwood: I remember some more of our long association now. In one of my other times on earth I was a member of an inland tribe. We didn’t live in Usal but we came here often for the abalone, crabs and surf fish, mussels, trout, steelhead, sea vegetables, shells; to pick berries -- there were blackberries, thimble berries, raspberries (for dyeing as well as eating), and huckleberries up on the hilltops. Usal was our treasure chest. We followed the creek westward from our inland valley. It was much wider then and we could use our smaller canoes a good bit of the way out to the coast.
My father and mother, along with my elder brother and the baby, rode in the first canoe. I resented that I couldn’t go in front with them. I had to ride in the next canoe with my mother’s sister and her husband. They were good to me but I still felt like an outsider.
Grandmother Redwood looked so different at that time! Her children which stand so high around her today were just little green dots clustered on her burls. She was enormous. She had been struck by lightning and burned in such a way that a room-sized cave was left within. I spent many hours there, praying, brooding, celebrating, solving the problems of my life. She is my homeland and my mother, Grandmother Redwood.
“I just noticed, Grandmother, that even your chainsaw scars are covered with new growth. There are green shoots all across the cut, ferns and blackberries; maybe a new tree will begin there, who knows?”
End of August, 1994
“Grandmother, I just now remembered something I have been hiding from myself all this time. It sears my heart, but I have to bring it out into the open.
“I was there when you were killed. I was one of the crew who killed you. I helped saw you down with the giant two-man saws we used at that time. It was long ago -- 100 years or more. My memory is like a sepia photo -- a man on each end of the huge saw and others, myself included, standing around waiting for our turn at the saw. It was still thick forest then, on a slope. We were so proud of our strength and stamina -- it took hours of tough grinding work, forcing that saw through you, and when you finally shrieked and fell, the earth shook a long way away. We all cheered and threw our caps in the air to celebrate our great victory. We had downed a giant.
“I can’t stand it that I did this to you. No wonder I buried the memory. I know you well enough now to know you don’t feel the need to excuse or forgive me -- that’s a human thought, my thought. I have to forgive myself for this. Anything less is to continue the pain and loss.
“I didn’t have a clue then. But I do now. I will think about all this and find a way to repair the imbalance for I love you and have loved you for long years through many lifetimes. You told me once, the whole earth is a temple and I am one of the pillars of the temple. Flawed or not, I will remember: I am a pillar of the temple. Thank you one more time, Grandmother.”
Tuesday, September 6, 1994
“Grandmother, you don’t forget anything, do you? You don’t forgive and you don’t forget.”
She answered, “Everything I’ve ever seen, felt or heard, every breeze that ever played through my crown, every storm, bird, every wound, sorrow, glory, everything that happened to me, years ago or yesterday, is recorded in each cell of my entire being -- bark, core, branches, roots, needles, cones -- I don’t need to ‘remember’; it is all present. Is it not this way for you, too?”
“I never thought of it quite that way but, yes, I suppose that’s the way it is with me too. But why don’t you forgive? Would you explain that to me again?”
“There is nothing to forgive. It all just is -- there is no good thing or bad thing, no good event or bad event -- it all just is. If I were to forgive it would mean I thought harm had been done that shouldn’t have happened, as if it were up to me to define events as good or bad. What nonsense! Everything just is, that’s all. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand what you’re saying but I’m not sure I’d be able to live it.”
“That’s up to you, dear.”
Monday, September 17/18, l995
“Hello, Grandmother. At first I was afraid that you had gone far away, or far back, from me. I couldn’t hear your voice and I thought maybe you’d forgotten me. But we really are here together in the Usal silence, September silence. It is an exquisite Indian Summer afternoon and I am so happy to be with you after a long time. The winter roads were impassable and the summer crowds were too much for me. But I am here now.
“You are almost hidden by blackberries, willows, poison oak, elderberries, and the low-hanging limbs of your children around you. You nurture so much life. With all my heart I thank you for letting me learn this, hear your whisper, rejoice in your children, hear the song the wind sings in their tall limbs.
“I know you don’t need this, but I do: I want to write down the experience I had last March on my son-in-law’s ranch when I drove my friends out back to see the lovely spring which gives us our water.
“We got out of the car and started exploring. Then Alene called us to come see the perfect small redwood grove she’d found, just right for us to sit and meditate. As I stepped into the clearing my eyes were drawn to a huge burned-out stump. Directly in front of that remnant was a young tree, maybe one or two feet across.
“Then I heard a whisper and was pulled forward. The young sapling was breathing the word, ‘Sisterrrrrrr’. I walked right over and wrapped my arms around her. My fingers just met. We stood there clasped together in a silent embrace which made my whole body shiver. I was so grateful. I said, “Oh, Sister, this is so wonderful, to find you here. I can’t wait to tell Grandmother Redwood.”
She quickly answered, “You don’t have to tell her; she already knows.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Of course she knows, as I know, everything you and she have spoken together. We all know everything that happens to any one of us. We speak through our roots; the wind carries our messages; we are in constant communication.”
“Oh, no. If one of you is cut down, everybody knows?”
“Just so, little one.”
I fell back, stunned. I had to leave. I wanted to run far away. I didn’t want to know this.
I called out to Grandmother, “I can’t stand it! All the agony my people have caused you. It is unspeakable.”
“Oh, my dear. I forget how young you are. Once more I remind you: we do not think like you. We have lived and thrived here for thousands of years. You live for less than one hundred. I was already 600 years old when Jesus was born. Think about that; try to step into my rhythm -- it’s different and so my thoughts, feelings and judgments are different too. Try it, and next time we visit, tell me what you learn.”
“All right, Grandmother, I’ll do it. I love you.”
January, 1996
Late summer 1993 is when this happened but I’m just now remembering to write it down. I was at my first Grateful Dead concert at Shoreline, down on the Peninsula, with Antonia, Curtis, Garnish and Roxann. It was a marvelous event from start to finish, but what I want to write about is this: During intermission all the musicians left the stage except the two drummers, who inspired us into the most joyful dancing -- it felt so good, I wanted to do it forever. But my legs gave out finally and I needed to sit down.
I decided to check that my energy was grounded well; I’d been excited for hours and needed to get centered. I began by imagining the energy moving down from my tailbone through my legs and feet straight down through the earth to the very core.
“Over the years of connecting with the earth this way, certain images have appeared to me. I usually see you down there, Grandmother, sometimes as you are now, cut down, and also as you were long ago, a tall and regal queen of the forest. I often imagine wrapping my energy around you there and thus securing myself more firmly to the center.
“This particular evening, as I sat while the audience of 20,000 people danced to the drummers’ irresistible beat, I sent my grounding cords down to my spot. But just as I got there, I heard you say very clearly, NO, you don’t belong here anymore. You must choose another place.”
“This rejection set me on fire. I cried out in agony. Why? What did I do? I’m so sorry, Grandmother; please tell me what I did wrong.”
“Immediately your voice soothed me. “No, no, dear, you’ve done nothing wrong at all. It is just that you have moved into a new direction on your path and this place will no longer serve you. You must go deeper -- it is best for you. It is not bad, it is good!”
“So I bowed to your decision and moved on. To my enormous relief, I eventually found myself deep in the center of the earth, curled up in the palm of the hand of the Earth Mother, safe and secure. I relaxed there a few minutes, then brought my attention back up to the surface where I was again present with the drums and all 20,000 people in the audience.
“Now when I send my energy running down to my spot, I often see you at my old place and wave as I move further down to the center.
“I still don’t know quite what this means but it is what really happened -- right in the middle of a Grateful Dead concert. As you have told me, “the whole earth is the temple.”
Wednesday, June 11/12, 1996
During my meditation today I had a visit with Grandmother Redwood. As I was admiring her new decorations of blackberries, foxgloves, elderberries, and all her tall children standing around her I said, “Grandmother, I just now realized you were cut down long ago and supposedly died, but no. From your roots came the shoots of your children growing up to the light; all over your cut there are flowering plants; you feed and shelter many creatures.
“Before you were cut down, there were no children; now your family is probably 60 or 70 years old. You lived thousands of years standing alone, but now you are surrounded and nourished as you nourish all those around you. Including me.”
Summer Solstice, June 20, 1996
“Grandmother, I’ve never seen you so beautiful. Actually it’s hard to see you at all, your children have grown so large. And many more shoots are coming up all the time. There is a twining necklace of wild grape around you, with a jabot of white star blossoms falling down your front; the blackberries have profuse pale pink, almost white blossoms, with the orangey-gold of sticky monkey flowers for contrast. You are gorgeous! You inspire me so much with your beauty that seems to grow every year. Your wounds have faded and the nourishment you continue to give to the earth, the other trees, the plants, insects and me, give me such hope. May I be as wise as you someday, Grandmother.”
“We are the same, my dear. How else could you recognize me?”
“Yes. Thank you. I forgot, again.”
Monday, September 1, 1996
Oh, if I can get this in words. I’m meditating to music, using the pictures it creates in my mind to connect with my center, my core. I begin sending my energy down, down through my body, my knees, toes, then continuing on down.
From a long, long way in, Grandmother whispered to me gently, “Hush, hush now, it’s all right; go on, you need to do this.”
So I said goodbye and kept going down to my mother the earth. I lay on her open palm, stretching full length. My fingers just reached the tip of her middle finger, my toes hooked over the heels of her palms. I turned over on my back and looked around with wonder. We were in the core of the earth, in the center of the fiery cauldron. Vivid ambers, reds, golds bubbling, splashed all around like in those movies of steel mills in Pittsburg. This is where I send all my cleared-out energy for recycling in the furious flames of the center of the furnace. But for me there is no burning, only the colors of the burning, rising up through the core all the way to the surface, to my body, to heal me, give me strength, help me grow.
As I lay there on the mother’s palm I began to wonder, what keeps the fires going? Is it the energy from all of us? Does she need us just as we need her to survive? When we die, do we somehow move down physically to be recycled in her core just as I do in my mind when I send my energy and love down to her? Are we drawn there just as objects are drawn to the black holes out in space?
We are not destroyed – we are recycled. I know this.
Fall Equinox, Sunday, September 21-22, 1996
“Well, Grandmother, you are all dressed up in your fall colors. That rain we had last week washed a bunch of dried needles down on you. It looks like you’re wearing a ruffled brown skirt. Beautiful. Your children have grown very fat this summer -- I can hardly see your trunk and roots for the green plants springing up.
“You know what, Grandmother? This is an anniversary. I know I’ve been here for fall equinox practically every year -- certainly since 1986 -- that’s ten years; and probably in 1981 too -- that’s 15; probably 1976 too; for 20! But I didn’t start writing down our talks until a few years later when it occurred to me that we had an ongoing, real relationship here, and I thought I’d better remember what we said. You are the loveliest gift to me, Grandmother.
“Twenty years -- such a long time to me, just the flickering of a bird’s wing to you. You must have known hundreds of us over the centuries.”
“Yes, it’s true. There have been many who came to visit me -- the birds, animals, the insects, the winds, humans. You are like bright lights in my endless nighttime sky. It is why I never despair -- you come, share your deep feelings with me, each in your own way. It is rich fare, your love.”
January 6, 1997 -- My Birthday
“Grandmother, remember a couple of years ago when I was running my grounding energy and I got down to where you were and you wouldn’t let me stay there? You said I needed a new grounding spot -- I had moved or changed in some way and the old place no longer was appropriate. So after I got over feeling rejected, I moved on and found myself in a much deeper part of the earth. I looked around and there I was in the palm of the hand of the Earth Mother herself; the true center, the core. Since then, when I run my energy, this is where I connect.
“For probably fifteen years I was connecting myself with the earth through you, Grandmother, and through Usal. But as you have told me many times, not just Usal but the whole earth is the temple, and I am one of the pillars of the temple. I could be anywhere and still be with you.
“Now I think of it, it seems to me that I focus my sense of connection to the earth by way of my identification with you, Grandmother, instead of going straight down to the center. There is such a strong love and overwhelming comfort I feel with you. How your love sweetens my life. Then to curl up, sublimely safe and comfortable, cradled in the palm of the hand of the Earth Mother deep in the deepest center of our earth -- ah, what blessings I am given.”
A week after Summer Solstice, 1997
“Well, Grandmother, many changes since last we met. I couldn’t get near you until a few minutes ago -- the whole daisy meadow was crowded with shiny white vehicles, come to clean out the crappers.
“Usal really looks like a state park now. Very kempt. And there’s a new sign: ‘Campsites must be reserved from June 29 until September 7.’ Reserved campsites! My, my. And you, Grandmother. Your skirts are covered with a climbing vine which has little white stars all over! Plus, your usual blackberries, sticky monkey flowers, ferns, foxgloves. I can hardly see you. Your children now have such long branches they almost hide you and your sisters from view. You are very beautiful. I hope the State leaves you alone now.
“They’ve completely removed a forest of willows and young alders near the bridge. Then they bulldozed the whole area to creek level and piled up all the rocks they dug up to form a wall, so now you can’t get back to the secluded campsites. Flood control, I suppose. Oh, well.
“It’s another summer we’ve been friends -- in this life, anyway. In the more than twenty years since we found each other, what riches we’ve shared. I’m so glad I have all those years in my memory banks because, you know, Grandmother, they’re taking the magic away, little by little.
“They rebuilt the road to the beach, too; it’s like a freeway. Next thing, they’ll pave it, then it will really be neat and tidy out here in the wilderness. Not a place for the likes of us, Grandmother!”
August 15, 1997
“I just realized today at the age of 74 while reading this diary, that in my outside life I didn’t have a grandmother, or a grandfather, either. I always wished for one, especially when I was small. Everyone else had one but my sister and me. But you’ve been an important part of my life since 1974. That’s twenty three years, my own heart’s grandmother, just what I needed. I was 51 when I found you, Grandmother!”
End of September, 1997
“Grandmother, I was so pained by what some fool did to you that I couldn’t write it down until now. It was sometime in August, I think. Alene and I had driven up for the day. There was no one here, really. It was a gorgeous day. Even with the new roads, new logging on the way in, still it was beautiful. We made our usual tour and then pulled into the daisy meadow. I walked over to you and there was the raw cut -- someone had sawed off one of your roots which had been exposed because of erosion from the road cut long ago. That root was about 5” across at the big end and maybe two feet long. Why did they do that? Cut your root?
“My first thought was, ‘My God, they’re just going to pick away and pick away at you until you are all gone.’
“And still you don’t forgive and you don’t forget.
“Ah, Grandmother, the lessons you give me!”
Tuesday, September 30, 1997
Tangerine and I came out for the day. “Oh, Grandmother, I can hardly keep from yelling. You remember the last time I was here and I was so upset by the new raw wound on your roots? Well, here it is a month or so later and as I walked up to see you, I was apprehensive because who knew what injury you had suffered since the last time?
“But the first thing I saw, bright in the sun, were two new green shoots, maybe 8” long, growing out of that chainsaw cut. New life, again. Bravo, Grandmother, bravo!”
December 31, 1997
“Grandmother, I’m feeling confused about our conversations. They are a part of me I never let anyone see, until recently. Then all of a sudden I felt compelled to share them. Now I ask myself, why is so important? I’m afraid it might be ego.
“But another part of me really wants to tell other people about our friendship. Maybe there are lots more people like me who have also found friends among the trees. I’d like to know of other people’s experiences.
“Maybe someone will read this and change her perspective, think about caring for the earth in a different way. We’re children playing with loaded guns, Grandmother. What are we to do?”
“Well, dear, the first thing is to remember that it is not that simple. In order to stay alive you have to eat. This is not arrogant or greedy – it is the way all beings continue. They must eat and drink and breathe in other creatures, consciously or not, whether they want to or not. But it seems to be only humans who worry about it. Other creatures just live. On the other hand, humans kill more than they need to survive, and want to kill enough to sell to others for profit. They are blind to the widespread harm that occurs when they clearcut a forest, for example, not considering that literally hundreds of creatures are killed at the same time. When these people wake up it is too late – the harm is done. You are right to worry.”
“Well, Grandmother, the only constructive, non-invasive thing I can think of to do is to keep loving you, loving the earth, loving our waters and beaches, loving all us fools who need reminding, we are the pillars of the temple.”
August 9, 1998
“Well, Grandmother, again you look very different. I couldn’t even find the chainsaw cut. The blackberries have obliterated my access to you. But, somebody has been climbing up the incline to the right and I can see that side now -- I might even be able to climb up there myself if I bring my stick. The new growth all around you is amazingly lush. Makes me feel very hopeful.
“After the ride over the mountain to reach you, I was almost afraid to drive in. Some monster machines have been used to shove piles of logs, slash, rocks, woods garbage, in ugly stashes all along the way over. It’s a terrible introduction to the beauty of Usal. But the earth destroyers have already removed the economically profitable trees and fortunately left behind the twisted and misshapen rejects which are so poignantly beautiful to me. So Usal itself retains its own glory in spite of the machines.”
April 8, 1999
My friends and I had just started meditating when I was filled with the sense of Grandmother Redwood’s presence. I was so wonderful to be with her again after such a long time and I said, “Oh, Grandmother, I was afraid we were done. Are we done?”
There was a long silence, then to my great relief, she answered, “I am here. I am always here. It’s not a long time for me since we last spoke together. I don’t feel time like you do. You see it receding from you in an ever-diminishing line back to what you name the past. I don’t see it that way. For me, it is always now. Now is always.
“For you the future stretches out in front of you, far away into the unknown. For me all of it is now, always visible. I didn’t even notice you were away because to me you are here, always available to me as I place my attention on you. Do you understand this about attention?”
“As usual, I’ll have to think about it.”
October, 1999
“Grandmother, as I send my grounding cords down to the center of the earth, I see they’ve changed. Usually they resemble thin, flexible tubes through which the energy travels to, through, and from me, from the universe washing down and spreading through me, then out my fingers, then down through my body to the base of my spine, through the legs, from the feet and toes, dropping down to the center of the earth. But this time the cords are light rays, hollow in the center for the energy to move through then down to the center. They change color as they move down. They go through you, Grandmother. I am overwhelmed with gratitude and joy; it almost hurts. I walk all the way around you -- it’s been years since I could get there through the undergrowth and poison oak jungle. But my inner eye can see you. I realize that for years now, I’ve been visiting you only on this one side. But around in back there is a whole different scene -- you were badly burned, for one thing. But what is left is a lovely room. I visited you there many times in another life and in this one too, the first years. Oh, God, thank you, Grandmother, thank you. I was afraid I’d lost you. Thank you, thank you.”
After this I continued down to the deep core of the earth where the Mother waits. Then I thought, “What -- are you making this up or is it really happening?”
And the reply was, “What’s the difference? The creator and the created are one.” And, “You are the tools the creator uses to express delight.”
November 17, 1999
“How sweet a blanket you lay on me, Grandmother. I just now got something in my body as well as just hearing the words in my head. I was glancing through earlier entries and came to the one previous to this where you were telling me your perception of time. It wasn’t just a description of your vision; I was inside it. I was it, not just longing to be it.
“I could see this multidimensional, multicolored weaving, moving and changing flawlessly, moving all the time. |
