"their stories" by Amy Jia
What if trees could tell their stories?
Would we find a grand tree in the forest, and sit by its roots to talk? If we asked, would it remember its time as a young sapling, straining to be as tall as the canopy of leaves up above? It could tell us the excitement of thickening, lengthening, as a new layer of rough bark and new branches formed.
Its voice would grow hushed as it tells us about the harder years, like how it felt to see forest fires roll through the normal calm of the forest. When reminiscing the years of drought, or the times when winter was drawn out a little too long, the tree would murmur the stories of difficulty, but its tone would brighten when it describes how it got past those years. It knew that summer was on its way when little buds sprung up along its branches and slowly unfurled into a fresh set of new leaves.
Maybe it could even teach us how to listen to the whispers of the breeze as it carried secrets, rustling the leaves gently each time it had new gossip.
The tree could then tell us its fears. It must have heard news of forests being cleared away, even for the stumps to be sliced level with the ground. Then the flat areas would have stone houses, buildings, factories built over. The leftover logs would be taken away and made unrecognizable, the life sucked out of them in a factory to be made into paper, or sealed forever under a thick layer of wax and varnish to be used as decorative furniture.
If the tree could share its wisdom, teach its lessons, and tell its fears and worries, would we, as humans, stop clearing away forests like they are inconveniences that stand in the way of urbanization? Would we stop treating paper like there are infinite reserves at our disposal?
What if raindrops could tell their stories?
If we caught a raindrop on the tips of our fingers during one rainy day, maybe it could explain its adventures, broken into silver vapour and being tossed by frigid winds in the sky. It could explain its time spent in a lake, glinting as it caught rays of the sun, rippling gently in the soft breeze on the earth’s surface. In another storm, it fell straight into a puddle made by a small hollow in the sidewalk. A child dressed in the colourful plastic of rainproof boots and a jacket leapt, giggling, sending the little raindrop up, then back down on the ground.
We could ask for its thoughts about how much the world has changed. From the beginnings of its life, forming on the earth’s surface, nourishing tiny cells of life, to the world of biodiversity before humans. Maybe as a cloud, it raced across the sky, lamenting the green forests slowly being replaced by brown stumps, then gray industrial sites. In the lake, it watched the animals become sparse, fish turn lethargic from pollution, and beaches shrink into near nothingness.
The raindrops would be unimaginably wise. They could answer the questions of history, give advice to the most sage of intellects, and tell the stories of the eons.
If raindrops could tell their stories, then, would this stop humans from taking gallons and gallons of clean water for granted? Instead, would we now cherish each drop?
Summary: Exploring the idea of what would happen if elements of nature could share their stories.
