CANADA 49°15’02.1”N 122°32’05.4”W
ELIZABETH GADD
“These are the woods where no words are needed; you need only to just be.”
i walk barefoot and softly over the moisture-filled, spongy moss. It’s glowing so green, it’s almost fluorescent, and I laugh when I realize I’ll have to tone-down the colouring in any photos I take here because no one would believe the reality of just how oversaturated this forest is. The ferns reach chest-high and are constantly dripping water while they gather vapour from the air, and it takes all of two seconds for the water to soak through my clothes as I navigate through the fronds, making my way toward a specific tree I spotted in the distance (yet severely underestimated my course-plotting efforts to reach). Each step is placed with trust, for I cannot see the ground below through the ferns. I’ll admit that rather frequently I find myself tumbling into holes hidden beneath half-rotted roots and tree stumps, some so large that I wonder what bears or cougars may have sheltered in these secret dens before. But even my falls are cushioned. Everything here is soft, the ground rich with decaying trees that crumble at the touch and supply nutrients for all the new emerging life, a continuous cycle of life and death and life again. These are the woods where I grew up. Nestled next to the mountains in British Columbia, Canada, this rainforest is almost always trapped under heavy clouds. I spent my childhood in awe of these fairy- tale woodlands that surrounded our home, and as I grew older, I would venture farther and farther into these forests. Not just to explore, but to simply feel the peace and presence of being among these trees. I would tell myself I only needed a few minutes in the woods, but I would come back hours, or sometimes days, later. This was, and is, where I find my rejuvenation. Now, I’ve reached the tree. The bottom half is bent at a prominent angle, as if she began growing sideways as a wild young sapling before she realized she must redirect straight up if she wanted to reach any sunlight. I chuckle as I imagine her character, and then I reach out a hand to rest softly on the mossy trunk. It is cool to the touch, yet I can almost hear the hum of life under the moss-covered bark, even despite the heavy silence around us. The occasional bird calls grow silent now as a fresh wave of fog rolls in through the trees, drowning out both sight and sound in its quiet density. I can only hear water dripping. I can feel the occasional drop hitting the skin of my arms, my shoulders. I lean against the angled tree, resting my cheek into the moss, surrendering to the cool dampness and breathing in the fresh fir, cedar, and hemlock-scented, humidity-filled air. I can feel her spirit. I feel a connection through the roots with all the other trees of the forest, both decaying and thriving. I feel her spirit connected even as one with my own, despite the tug at my heart knowing her sisters have been wiped from existence a mere few miles away. I ponder the cruelness at humanity’s hand and am not surprised to feel our own suffering along with the great, gentle rainforests. We are connected, after all.
17
MOTHER VOLUME TWO
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