As the Trees Speak

Once upon a time, there was a Pagan poetess who lived in a small cottage in the woods. She wore a long gown of motley-dyed cloth, crystal earrings, and feathers in her hair. On festival days, she danced through the village with tiny cymbals attached to her fingers.

The poetess liked to take her chai at a tiny coffee house in the village. The baristas came to know her rather well, especially the Wood-Elf. He prepared her chai in a delicate ballet, his green eyes sparkling with the secrets of the forest. He stroked his scruffy blond beard as he chatted with the poetess, his chin length hair gently curling in time to his thoughts.

The Pagan and the Wood-Elf became friends. They met often, at poetry slams and alternative music open mikes, Tao Chemical concerts, and art shows. They shared books and traded ideas. He taught her his secret wood-elf recipe for chai and she showed him where her favorite mushrooms grew. He sang to her as he played his dulcimer and she read him verses inspired by the trees.

Their friendship was tender and joyful and undemanding. Their liking for one another shone from their eyes. They shared no drama, no anxiety, and no conflict. They met as their lives gave them opportunity and enjoyed their separate adventures when apart. They drifted gently into romance, letting things unfold as they would.

One night, the Wood-Elf invited the Pagan to the large home in the woods that he shared with many people. They spent a lovely night exploring their connection, emerging from the loft where he slept late the next morning.

Near the foot of the ladder, a lady waited, holding a small child in her lap. The child had a large cast on one leg.

The Wood-Elf introduced the Pagan to the lady, casually mentioning that the child was his daughter.

“She broke her leg in a fall from the loft,” he said.

The lady swept jealous and resentful eyes over the Pagan. The Pagan responded with a tiny smile and an innocuous greeting.

The Wood-Elf offered her breakfast, but the Pagan made her excuses and fled to the trees. She laid her cheek against the bark of a trusty redwood friend and thought about what had happened.

He hadn’t told her he had a child. All the time they had been friends and shared so much, he had never thought to share this essential fact of his life.

She kept seeing the wounded look in the lady’s eyes and the cast on his daughter’s leg.

Somehow, this changed all the time they had spent together. He had never lied to her, never promised her anything, never treated her with anything but tenderness and respect.  All that they had shared was now shaded with the Pagan’s compassion for the lady and the child.

When the Pagan and the Wood-Elf next met by the ocean, he told her he wasn’t with the lady.  The Pagan told him that she liked him a lot and that she treasured the time they’d spent together, but the situation was too complicated for her.

She hadn’t loved him. She didn’t think he’d loved her. They’d come together in freedom and gladness that can only come when free of the yoke of love.

She gave everything he had shared with her to the trees and walked away free.

Years later, the Pagan and her family walked into a restaurant for supper. The Wood-Elf greeted her and told her that he and his wife owned the restaurant. He served the family graciously while beaming tenderly at his pregnant wife.

The Pagan was glad that he’d found another wood elf to love.

She gave thanks to the trees for their tender care.