When I was little, I wrote letters to trees. I convinced myself that not only could trees walk, talk, and think, but they had feelings as well. I was also certain that I was the only one to ever discover this. 

My belief in the human qualities in trees stemmed partly from my readings of C.S. Lewis and my identification with the young and, in my mind, persecuted Lucy. In Prince Caspian of Narnia, Lucy had awakened the trees and I thought that in Ithaca, New York, I could do the same.

As a child I believed that trees, plants, and nature in general were talking all the time, but that we as humans had lost the ability to hear them. Using the logic of a four year old, I concluded that since trees spoke a different language than humans, I would write to them. I then initiated my younger sister into the secret and together we composed a letter that ran something like this: 

"Deer trees, wee no you can talk." (I still have this letter). Following that came our 'stepes for taking care of trees' and I quote: "Water them. Dont let anebodee clime them for 2 days. Let all birds and creetures have freedom! If its freezing cold breeth warm breath on them. Keep P. And all S.P. cleen!" 

I have no idea what 'p' and 's.p.' were.

Inside the letter came a tiny map of the small forest behind our house with the caption 'map' at the bottom. This map was used as a crude navigation guide during my own walks in the woods. Whenever I went, I  brought with me my book on trees, a notebook, and the stuffed seal in whom I confided when there were no convenient shrubs. I was a strange child and, as yet, oblivious to the fact.

However, I did not remain oblivious long. One cannot be four forever; I was nearing the age of seven when I discovered that most of my playmates did not talk to trees--nor did they write letters to them. I was considered weird by all except my best friend, Cynthia, and my younger sister Sarah, who were as convinced as I that trees could talk. However, our conviction faded with the discovery that there was no tooth fairy. Santa Claus had long ago ceased to exist but there was still the mysterious quarter that always appeared on time to keep us hoping--until the night we decided to stay awake so that we could confront this fairy once and for all. 

Somehow we managed to avoid sleep the entire night; instead we lay listening to the wind rustle our curtains (the window was open because fairies fly) and the soft striation of the crickets. Morning came without a tooth fairy or a quarter. When the trees also continued growing in silence we began to doubt. A final, desperate letter begging them to speak---a week of waiting---and it was over. No letter, whisper, or sigh descended from their branches and our letter lay unanswered on the grass.

Feeling like martyrs, we read Foxe's Book and held a dramatic letter burning over our fireplace in which all except the two quoted epistles disappeared. A year later my family moved and the cold, unresponsive tree was left behind. For Sarah and me, nature was dead, which meant we no longer had to agonize over paper or plastic at the supermarket. We unflinchingly chose paper. I think it was the 'death' of trees and the numerous books I had read that drove me to the written word in times of stress. If a tree would not respond, I was certain an audience would.

Dramatic tales and myths then followed which I read to a bored audience consisting of Sarah, age five, and Abagail, age three. I discovered that three year olds do not appreciate myths. I had turned from nature as a way of dealing with stress to writing---surely an audience of two would be less fickle then a mute tree.

Even so, a large amount of the tree-knowledge I amassed during my childhood stayed with me: I can still identify some trees by their leaves. Presumably, the original tree is still standing in Ithaca somewhere; it waits both literally and figuratively. 

Nature always remains for one to return, but once abandoned, it is hard to come back to. Nature stays the same, but people change: they 'grow up' in the sense that they use the social codes of their world. Consequently, I 'grew out' of trees and nature, and thus lost a part of my courage to stand against accepted thought and live for what I believe in. Even if it is slightly deluded.

There is a line to a song I like that accurately states what I am trying to describe: 

"If I'm right then you are wrong / If I'm wrong then I really lived". 

Wordsworth was right: Man needs to return to nature. Nature was created as a refuge for man; there is no better way to connect than withdrawing to it during times of stress or anxiety. Some elements of man's description of nature and its aspects may have been wrong, or slightly off. But even if all of the presumptions about nature were wrong, as long as one retains a connection with it, one would still have experienced life. Our fast-paced world tends to detract from the value of life and cause us to lose our focus and priority. Nature has a way of bringing this back, and infusing one with a fresh strength to stand up and be different.

I still do crazy things, but usually only in foreign countries (like New York City) where no one is likely to know me, and if they do, they can successfully pretend that they don't. There is something refreshing about dancing around with an umbrella in Central Park when it isn't raining, glancing up at the sky, and saying "tut, tut, it looks like rain".

Central Park or something akin to it will always be there, but the humans might not. I've yet to encounter anyone else with a gray umbrella on a sunny day in Central Park; but I hope that someone, umbrella or no umbrella, will be there. Humans need to stay in touch with nature whether humanity or human's society changes. I might have lost my own touch, but I'm working on bringing it back. Hey, it takes courage to dance around with an umbrella!

Author's Biography

Anna Hunt is a student who currently lives in a New York City suburb.

She has been writing all her life, but only recently began to market her work. She has a passion for art (it reduces stress) and writing in particular.

E-mail Anna at annagh@bestweb.net

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