Puddle: A Tale for the Curious

by Elena "Birch" Bozzi

  “Well. We had a game of beechi ball and snacked with the Beech clan. Would you care for some pesto and hummus? We made mulch to go around. Our friends here are called Puddle and Birch.”

  “Thank you, but we are fasting on only sunlight and sap,” declined Cedar with the lacy grace of a tree long in meditation. “Greetings, unbarked newcomers. We felt your wondrous arrival through the water. Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” we spoke in unison.

  Puddle continued, “Your camp has beautiful energy. Walking up I feel my thoughts becoming free as clouds, yet clear and ordered as scales on fish swimming in a deep spring.”

  The Cedars glided about their glade, doing indiscernible, important endeavors. “Thank you. We have worked long at establishing this sacred space by the river.”

  I was intrigued, and asked, “How does one establish a sacred space? I thought that a space was either sacred, or not sacred.”

  “The energy of events gets trapped in places,” answered a Cedar. “An argument or similar occurrence can frazzle the energy of a place. We brought our intentions to this space. We beckoned serenity here. This circle of stones has held fire. With that fire, we burned away many mental blocks. With that fire, we ignited reverence. Our intentions created our reality.”

  “I feel the effects just by standing here,” I acknowledged. Puddle smiled his agreement.

  The Cedar said, “As the sun reaches its highest point tomorrow, we are offering an energy workshop on cleansing from the roots up the apex. We find stillness to better hear the sounds that narrate the space between hearing.”

  We agreed to attend the Cedar workshop, and were politely dismissed. We plodded on upriver and toward supper. The Pines glided effortlessly around the other forest trees along our way. Many trees stood still, and didn’t seem to have the same walking and talking qualities of the Beeches, Pines, and Cedars with whom we conversed. Perhaps they were sleeping. Perhaps their jobs were to provide homes and shade for other forest dwellers, and had to root themselves in stillness. Perhaps a third thing. I did not want to break the silence of our walk, so left my wonders in wonderland.

  The sun had spoken its last whispers of goodnight before crossing the horizon, and the moon waxed the velvet space until the sky glittered with stars. Evening seemed to last an eternity during this part of the seasonal cycle.

  A bend opened to a series of small waterfalls that wandered beneath a bridge of stones. We plodded on, and found that the path along the bank of the river turned from grasses to gravel. Stone steps were cut along the waterfalls. The trees bypassed the steps, but Puddle and I found them useful. Near the top of the ridge, we heard a silent, pleasant voice calling us to feast.

  An orchard of Apples swayed at us from their grove, which looked like a well-ordered kitchen. A stone oven sat near an ember cooking fire. Both emitted enchanting aromas.

  “Welcome, friends,” the Apple clan greeted with joy. “Come enjoy our evening meal with us. We reserve this spot for Festival every year because of the stone oven, and to be near our Pine friends. Here, try these apple fritters.”

  The Apples made sure everyone was well feasted. They served apple pasta, apple curry with rice and beans, apple loaf, stew, stuffing, salad, slaw, sandwiches, cider, dumplings, medley, motley, torte, and delicate apple faerie cakes with apple slices for wings. I made a joke about how there should be a candy house in their grove with a stout oven and misunderstood witch because they were plumping us up so efficiently. Nobody got it, but they shook their leaves politely.

  Their feast was fabulous. Hospitality gave the trees energy. The sun gave to them, they gave to us, and our appreciation returned their energy many times over.

  I was stuffed silly, and ventured to ask what I had wondered since the Pines came over with their pesto, “Do you, um. If you eat these delectable dishes, is it, could it be considered, mmm, I come from a place where we don’t usually eat those of our own species.”

  The trees flipped their leaves in a humored manner, and I heard, “We digest differently. Your parts would stay eaten if you took a bite of, say, your fingers. Ours grow back and are intended to be food for many. We eat the sun and soil, and make tasty treats. Our parts become compost, which we may utilize to grow again because of our very design. You, however, would have a more difficult time digesting the compost you make. We have grown differently, and have different habits. We have roots, not mouth holes.”

  “True,” I replied. “Why, then, would you cook at all, if your food needs to turn into compost before eating it? Aren’t you not supposed to put cooked food in the compost?”

  “You wonder why we would go through all the work to make hummus when we eat naturally composted humus? We enjoy the act of cooking, and the companionable feeling of creating food together, so we often create elaborate feasts. It makes our meals more sacred.”

  “It makes them delicious, too!”

  “Well, thank you, friend,” Apple beamed. “Eat your fill, then some. Festival is a time for feasting together.”

  “Mmm,” said Puddle. “I could go for a nap now, after all that food. Thank you for sharing.”

  “You are wonderfully welcome, little one. Rest a moment. The drumming will begin soon, and you’ll be thankful for a moment’s rest.”

  We sat on a flat stone, still warm from the sun, and surveyed the wide valley. The moon hugged the forest and the foothills in the distance with reflected sunlight, and made the world a blanket of washed-out indigo.

  My eyes closed momentarily. Memories of sandwiches and cider serenaded the sun in its sleep, while the moon whispered for us to dance. In my half-awake dream, I danced the wild dance of one unhindered by a body. My leaps left trails of silvery moon glitter above the trees. On the tip of one toe, I spun an intricate game of angular momentum. My body morphed into animals, and I tried to imitate their signature moves.

  The kind of yawn that accompanied a really great stretch resounded near my left ear. Something whacked me in the face.

  “Sorry!” cringed Puddle as he took his arm back. “That was a spectacular sleep, and my stretch got away from me.”

  “Ehhhh,” I replied, unsure of where I was. My eyes opened to the stars, and the events of the day plopped themselves in order. Sleep could discombobulate the mind of a traveler.

  My very sinews knew there was a fire nearby. I heard faint drums guiding the circle of trees, which rotated sun-wise around that fire in my mind’s eye.

  “Is fire dangerous for you?” I asked the Pines and the Apples. “I thought trees did not approve of fire.”

  “Our limbs occasionally fall off on their own accord, or from outside influence, be it storm or such for catalyst. We do not sacrifice our living selves for fire, but our fallen bits are fine for flames. The danger and pain are risks worth the freedom. Fire is wild, and most effective when used with Purpose. Much can be healed after pain burns away. Much can grow in the ashes. Dance, my dears. The way is over this bridge and to the Pawpaw camp. Follow us.”

  Veorda’s moon chuckled gibbously to itself. Our toes beat rhythms to the Pine and Apple roots sidling, swinging, strutting a synchronistic ostinato over the gravel path. Periodic candles lit our way like ground stars. The tiny flames in the forest were okay because the trees told us rain had recently drenched any chance of spreading flames accidentally. The candles looked like fireflies, and, in several cases, turned out to be fireflies.

  *~*

  A languid hill stooped to sniff the path. We entered a clearing with a floor of sand. Fallen limbs of fire spread light from the center. A gathering of drummers sat near the river. They created a rhythm that ignited my mind, and sent the flame of inspiration down my spine. It gathered in my limbs, and tingled to be set free. I yearned to enter the circle of dancers, but had to get my bearings first.

  Pine and Apple joined Beech and Cedar, who were already sidling their circular way around the fire. The magic of the grove made sure everyone could fit around the axle of the wheel, the fire, in w
hich we turned.

  Pawpaw tended the blaze. I could recognize others drumming or joining the dance: Hazel, Holly, Hawthorn, Willow, Oak, Ash, Maple, Rowan, and Walnut. A trio of Birches swayed across the fire. We noticed each other in simultaneous slowed-time. They nodded knowingly, but what they knew burned away as it passed over the flames. I felt as if they recognized me, but that notion may have come from our shared name.

  The music interjected my thoughts, and my feet flipped the rest of me into step with the circling trees. All of our branches wove the wild magic of the fire.

  The Apples had mentioned using fire with Purpose. I wasn’t sure what they chose as their Purpose. Mine that day was to celebrate life and love, joy and wonder. I had to leave everything I knew behind to take part in this dance. Was it worth it? My heart was so full of adventure that I felt it was worth it, though a corner of my mind wondered how long I could sustain that sentiment. Now, however, was not for worries. Now was for the moment. Now was for celebration.

  Danger in its purest form paced within the fire. Fire was destruction, wild and thirsty. Once fire quenched its thirst, it could rest again. But it was ravenous, and engulfed any available food in its path. From that certain destruction, came rebirth and the fertile loam for growth. Renewal followed devastation. Renewal could heal.

  I danced around the fire, and concentrated on a memory from years ago that still made my heart heavy. I had dropped a big box of crayons that exploded everywhere. Everyone around me ignored my plight. Some even cracked my crayons with their shoes. I picked up my broken pieces with lonely fingers, and vowed to help both friends and strangers pick up their pieces. I crumpled up the pain of that memory, and tossed it in the flames.

  Ashes themselves did not always provide the best conditions for plants to thrive. Further amendments were needed to correct pH and such for optimal loaminess. The same went for personal healing. One may burn that which causes painmemories, guilt, expectations. One must, then, cultivate one’s inner soil with love and patience. My pain turned to ash, but the lesson remained to nurture my life.

  The trees wove the stories that they had lived since their last meeting a year ago with the smoke of time and beauty, pain and change. With every step and stomp, they shared the wisdom that got them through another cycle around the big sky star. The dancers curled and swirled around each other in time. They acted out their lives and knowledge. Every experience was practice for their dance.

  Around and around the fire we rambled on as night went on forever. We burned away age and ache, patterns turned harmful or hateful, stress and expectations. Guilt became smoke that withered away to be transmuted into acceptance. Pain that had been held inside welled up and burst out for change. Pain was like pulling an invasive weed. Something needed to take its place, or else the pain would grow back in the empty soil. We called for moments of joy. Life and love came to take the place of hurt and abandonment. Stretched to the stars, we celebrated our connections.

  The drums crescendoed, and our steps became hops. Our branches arched, swooshed, and released. A breathless, breathy frenzy circled the fire. Each tree blurred into the next, so no one could tell one clan from another. Energy rose from our circle like heat from the desert, condensed and too fast to see clearly. We became one with the music, and it guided us. The drummers conducted a grand rumba, a waltz, a tango. Dances that never had names, which were taught by the stones the moment the roots could learn, passed strange and beautiful between beats. Quickening beyond critical measure, we shattered. We disintegrated into a miasma of everything, and everywhere. It all made sense, from birth, to death, and all the changes between and beyond. It all made perfect sense.

  One, from the Elderberry clan, joined the dancers in their continuous circle with an elderberry flute. Notes of dew and frost floated about our feet.

  The drums knew their job and did it splendidly. They slowed steadily until we were separate again, but at the same time still One, without needing to wonder at the difference. Energy built up. The dense dome was visible only to those who chose to see. We stored some of the energy in our bones and xylem, but there was too much.

  We sent it off. Our chanted songs directed the energy to where it needed to be. The energy had its own consciousness, an old and vast conglomeration of knowledge of everything that has ever been. Still, it was curious as to the thoughts and desires of living beings. It liked to know we were paying attention. It wanted to know what was in our hearts. So, we reached down to the deepest parts of our beings, and hummed our love to the universe. The drumbeats synced with our heartbeats, and wove magic with our humming. Our song was as old as the first cricket scratching its marimba wings. The universe heard us, and was pleased.

  I made a choice during that dance. Every action I would choose from that point on would first pass by my heart. Love had the power to transmute any other emotion. I would not fear hurt to my heart, because my heart was strong and could heal. The scar tissue left would be used for strength, rather than fear. Compassion could heal a broken heart. I decided that I deserved my own compassion as much as anyone else, perhaps more. To invest in anyone, I first had to invest in myself. In that way, compassion was a selfish act, a most beautiful selfish act that kept giving, no matter whether the compassion was for myself or for someone else.

  I danced for myself that night. I danced because my body loved to move, and my spirit touched the fire.

  The tempo slowed, and lingered to let us fill ourselves with cool night air and water of life. Hydration meant more dancing and happier bodies. We swayed around the circle, anticipating another crescendo. I loved the calm between waves of motion. Our dance was timeless as the ocean hugging the shore, and as flawless as flowers bending in the breeze.

  The eternal stars stretched and yawned. The golden pink of the eastern horizon released time into motion again. Most of the trees wandered off to root themselves in rest, while Pawpaw, Beech, and Holly remained to close the night.

  Puddle took my hand, and our eyes laughed together in disbelief. I spoke in my native language for the first time in hours, for the songs we sung while dancing were universal and beyond words, “Now that was something.”

  “That dance was alive. Just like any perfect memory, a dance like that cannot be relived the same exact way,” his gaze shifted to the Apple camp. “I am hungry as an empty dragon. Shall we?”

  We stepped from the Pawpaw’s camp and got stopped by the bridge. There were no trolls asking difficult questions. However, there was enough sunrise to see by, large rocks to hop upon, and clear water to splash in. Our spirits were refreshed by dancing, and our bodies would be refreshed by the water.

  Puddle waded right in. The river came up just below his knees. I stood on the bank.

  “Come in,” he called. “The chill is glorious!”

  I called back, “I would not enjoy getting chilled from wet clothing.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Swimming clothesless would make drying off easier. Would that be inappropriate?”

  “That depends on where you come from. We would be clad in sky.”

  “Huh,” I commented. My tone implied, well, ok, but no funny business. I hope you’re not trying to come on to me, though you’re pretty attractive. This is just a logical thing we’re doing because wet clothes are annoying. I hope you know that, and I don’t want to have to explain everything. But I will if I have to. Wow, I’m hungry. Let’s get skyclad already.

  I laid in the cold water, held a rock with my fingertips, and let the leisurely rush of the river suspend my body. The water was gentle with its ancient power. The energy of the water washed through my atoms and took away the weariness my muscles knew. Puddle grabbed some sticks from the bank and tried racing them downstream. The sticks won.

  A lanky heron flew near us, and stood around waiting for breakfast.

  We wanted breakfast, too, and walked toward the Apple camp, dripping and jolly in the morning air.

  “Dears, greetings,�
�� the Apples bid us. “Eat with us. You must be quite hungry after dancing.”

  The Apples had spread a woodland-foraged meal of oyster mushrooms, candied violets, minced apple pasties, and sweet wild strawberries on a table of woven willow branches. We feasted, and promised to help them cook next time. They assured us that they enjoyed preparing food, and appreciated our enthusiasm. No worries, they said. It all works out.

  We helped clean up. It worked out.

  Lavender grew around the Apple camp. Its morning scent made me sleepy. Actually, the night of dancing made me sleepy, but the lavender helped. Puddle and I decided to have an early morning nap on a large patch of soft clover next to the lavender. We dreamt of drums drifting like butterfly wings through daisy meadows, and the beauty of the forest.

  *~*

  Purpose and Wholeness

  The Wreets, wrapped in dew and pollen, performed their Purpose. Their claw mouths munched fallen leaves and dried flowers. They bent in the breeze and solace of each other’s presence. Huddles of Wreets dotted the grazing land. Their grass backs hid them from predators, and grew back quickly if a wild sheep wandered too near. Their watch was assiduous.

  Nearby, milkweed called to monarchs, who alighted light as cirrus upon the sky. The purple nectar aroma lingered like jewels made of air. The Wreets paid little attention to butterflies and their dotted, bemused path, so caught up in their Purpose were they.

  The underside of a Wreet scraped the soil, loosening loam for seeds to become buried at their proper depth. The Wreets found useful seeds in hostile places, and stored them in their undersides until friendly ground was found. From inside their shells, the seeds knew, and appreciated. As they grew, they held memories of the Wreets, of what the young plants thought of as kindness. The kindness imbued the plant as it grew.

  The Wreets paid little attention to the appreciation given by those plants. They had more urgent tasks to recall, such was their Purpose. They created livable conditions for effective biodiversity. Their instincts to stay safe in the present also occupied their attention.

  Instincts were silly things. Our instincts taught us what we had known to be useful in times past. Some creatures held so tightly to outdated instincts that they perished in a quiet end. They finished adapting. Change was no more.