Stealth Trees

Foto de Colton Jones en Unsplash

    Lying on the bed, with the reverie still dragging me into a dreamlike world alien to daily life, a pressing tingling pierced my thoughts that flowed from the shadows of the night. The luminosity of dawn struggled to penetrate the gray curtain that covered the window that faced the outside, but without success, transforming the walls into reflections of light mourned by darkness, stamping the silhouette of the brocade as lucid shadows. In the middle of the dream, I had the sudden urge to hear something different than usual. Then I remembered the magical and noble voice of Loreena McKennitt. It is like returning to places that I have never seen, but that my soul has felt and felt with invisible fingers. While listening to the album "In Her Own Words: Lost Souls" my mind was stranded between the dream and the present, trapped between the words of that voice.

    Alone in the middle of the darkness ― a light dark ― I let myself be enveloped by those words and the sound of the violin. The strings of the violin, the soft sound of those strings continued to cling to the present of the room. I felt a slight pang in my chest, as if my body wanted to float and feel the cold wind of the early morning. I heard small drops of water fall and I understood that it would be a rainy and cold morning, however, the warmth of that voice invaded me and I was only able to feel my hair spread on the pillow, black curls spread on pillows scented with forest and nocturnal citrus.

    I stretched out my hand to the sky and moved my fingers as if hoping to catch the words, listening attentively to the murmur of an unforeseen rain and the clattering that it brought with it. I couldn't do it, I couldn't catch Loreena's words, but I knew my heart did and I decided to get up suddenly. I didn't want to go on sleeping, I needed to write as much as those words inspired me because my heart ached to get them out, to let whatever I felt flow over the keys. I don't always know what I feel, only paper manages to bribe my words and strange are the occasions when it doesn't.

    At this moment, while I hear the rain falling on the garden tile and the leaves soaking with morning water, I find myself in front of the screen listening to the song "Ages Past, Ages Hence" again. The sun won't make an appearance today, or at least the clouds won't leave the stage for this one, however, it seems that it's just what I need to gallop between the words. I breathe in the cold wind, but I leave it in hold for a moment, feeling how my chest expands and my diaphragm spreads with life inside it. It begins to lighten more and the blue-breasted swallows trill over the street fence.

 

«Ancient castles and climbing cliffs

Summoned by the sea

Windswept shores and crashing waves

Rages furiously

Twisting trees old and true

Stand huddled watchingly

 

Oh, ages past, ages hence

Pages turned carefully

Ages past, ages hence

Pages turned carefully»

    I let myself be carried away by those words. I don't know if I can really be fully understood, but I know that there are people with that sensitivity that makes them understand the meaning of the life around them. More than understanding the life around me, I crave it intensely every time a melody or a voice manages to evoke that feeling in me. Those words: Ages past. Thinking about the life of trees, how many stop to think about the life of trees? They have seen more than us, I can assure you, they have lived more, they have heard more, they have felt more, they have happened more. If there are beings who have been able to see the past, those are the trees, the rivers, the lagoons, the mountains, the rocks that remain impassive in their place. In ancient Nordic, Celtic, pre-Hispanic, Indo-European societies, they believed in the life of nature, trees are not exempt so I let myself be carried away by the idea that they have witnessed more than many have been able to and no one stops to weigh the idea, few do. I know that they may be daydreams and questions of someone who seems to waste time on trivialities that border on the transcendental, but they are noble and not banal topics.

    Past lives, past time, past feelings that seem to still be there in the pit of the stomach and at the entrance of memory, waiting to enter through the door of memory.

 

«What picked smile has touched your lips?

What melody so sweet

Soothed your breast, your beating heart?

The underworld gone to sleep

Twisting trees old and true

Stand huddled witchingly».

 

    When I see a tree leaning downwards, as if watching the little beings lying nearby, I stop to think about the idea that maybe, just maybe, they have observed so much under the impulse of curiosity that they have become so twisted. Attentive, waiting to delve into the souls of those who pass around them, how much can they guess of that soul that drags tired feet? How much can they guess of that silly smile lost in the thoughts of a lover? How much can they guess in the sorrowful tiredness of those who come from working the land? How much can you guess about the old man with wrinkles furrowing his face, with as many betas as the undulations that their trunks have?

    Every time I see a tree leaning, twisted and with tall and long branches, I can sense that it has seen more than the others, it has felt more than the others. Yes, every time you see such a tree, think that it has felt more than you and that it can see more in you than you think.

 

«Into the clutches of night

I can see the torchlight shine bright

The gates are drawn

The hands sit still

There's laughter that bubbles within

Down bend the trees quietly witnessing

Man's journey into himself»

 

Today's melody: