“Only the rarest of characters have genuine insight into the future or the past, and those seem crippled with grief at what they see.”Barbara Kingsolver, 1992
I wake to moonlight and wind, old pines soughing in the night.
Three A.M. moon bright through my window, alive through the needles.
I sigh with the trees; I want to sleep but moon and pine song draw me out.
My dreams turn to memories of lost landscapes: the wiregrass prairie, Longleaf’s domain, stretching forever, covering coastal plain.
Like imagined lost lovers grieved for in the night, I grieve with the pines the loss of their mothers, fathers, lovers and friends, the loss of a world rampant with life, our birthright traded for a mess of porridge.
Tears slide slowly down my cheeks, and my chest aches with unreleased sobs.
What madness is this that comes in the night? How can I explain?
Who would believe?
:That I suffer the loss of the old growth forests like the loss of a child;
:That I feel the pain of what has been done like a blade in my chest;
:That sitting here in the moonlight, I feel the the attacks on the long-lost landscape as attacks on my body, as a deep abiding pain, an ache of heart and chest and head;
:That I am “crippled with grief” at what I see, immobilized by rage at what has been lost, at what cost… and at what gain.
How to explain?
Hobbling through life, heart bursting, lips frozen in a silent scream.
But the sweet moonlight pours over me yet like honeysuckle scent. Tears of crystal grief sparkle.
The pines’ sad songs are soft lullaby, and at length, I sleep.
In dreams, I walk along in moonlight down ancient corridors of pine!
(From a journal sometime around the year 2000.)