I recently wrote this fable and song. Things seem rough right now, no? Will we be okay? I don’t know. This story and song are leaning into that uncertainty, trying to acknowledge it and also at the same time find some beauty, hope, strength. Seems maybe at times all we can do, right?

Anyway, here’s a video of me telling the story and singing the song. I’ll also put the fable below the video if you want to read it as well. But I hope you’ll listen. I think it works better that way.

Walking this morning 

I came across a grandmother oak. 
Years of wisdom and wit embedded deep in the furrows of her bark. 
She had questions for me. 
Where is Beauty, hope and joy? 
Where is love? Where is grace?
I don’t know, I told her.
She paused for what felt like years. 

Maybe it was.

During that time we both stood silently in the breeze,
Listening to the sounds of these woods. 
Oven Bird sang directly to me, calling out, 

Teacher, teacher, teacher. 

Not me today, I responded to Oven Bird. 
Today, all I have are questions. 
I’ve nothing left to say, 
Knowing it was a lie, 
Confusing exhaustion with apathy.

Then Grandmother Oak said, 
In my roots, I have memories of the first of you that came. 
They were hungry like you and the woods and the streams and lakes fed them. 
And it was good. 
Plentiful.  
Bountiful. 

I also remember how your kind struggled and fought. 
Their blood filtered through the loam and the sandstone, 
Trapped by the limestone and clay. 
That blood was bitter in taste. 
But, not always. 
Sometimes there was joy and love. 
And I always took it in with forgiveness and gratitude, 
For I loved you and you loved me.  

Witchety, witchety, witchety Common Yellowthroat called out, 
Interrupting my conversation with Grandmother Oak. 
I looked to Grandmother Oak for help understanding once again.
And him? What does he say?
Where are you headed? she asked me. 
I assumed she was interpreting for me. 
Trees are good for that. 
I don’t know, I said again. 
I thought I did. 
Sometimes I do. 
Sometimes, I have no idea. 

That’s okay, she said. 
I feel the same. 
Sometimes, it’s best to stop moving in any direction 
And stay in one place for a while and take in what the ground has to offer, 
Reach for the sun, 
Revel in the glow of the moon, 
And be still with this place. 
In its love. 

She continued. 
I can still taste the waters of the glaciers 
As they melted and left behind bits and pieces. 
Rocks and sand. 
And hear the creaking of the lichens 
Chipping away at the exposed granite and basalt.

But how? I asked, confused. 
Surely even you are not old enough to have seen this succession. 

The ground knows, she said.
The soil remembers and he tells me. 
Through the fungus from one plant to another, 
From root to root, 
Xylem to leaf and up into the sky. 
The clouds hold it for a while and then release it. 
Cool, clean, and it tastes sweet.

Red-Eyed Vireo chittered and chatted 
In a continuous string of words and melodies. 
All foreign to me. 
Again, I looked at Grandmother Oak. And her?
Oh, I don’t know. 
She talks so fast, 
I can’t make the words out anymore with my ancient ears. 
But it’s pretty, right? 

It is, I said, yes. 

And so we listened for a while, 
as if that was all there was to do. 
A long time for me. 
A moment for the tree. 
Nuthatch laughed at me a few times. 
I got that, I told Grandmother Oak. 
He’s not laughing at you, he’s laughing with you, she said. 
Nice try, I countered. 
We listened for a while longer. 

Will we be okay? I asked her.
She paused for a moment. 

Or hours. 

When she finally replied, 
All she said was, 
I don’t know. 
We listened some more, 
Until all I could hear was a woods full of oven birds talking back and forth 
To each other. 

Teacher, teacher, teacher. 
This time maybe not a salutation, but a command. 
I’m tired, I muttered. 

So am I, 
Said the forest as one voice. 

Teacher, teacher, teacher.