Tuesday Open Thread ~ Tales of the Forest


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The clearest way into the universe is through a forest wilderness. ~ John Muir
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Good Morning!

Welcome to Tuesday’s Open Thread. Selecting topics each week can often take a very circuitous route inside my head before it lands on the page. A few weeks ago, as I sought refuge underneath the shade and protection of some large pine trees, I began thinking, for no particularly reason, why forest folklore has inspired so much literature and artwork. Thus, as a result of my musings, I present this week’s selection of stories and poetry.

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The tradition of oral story-telling has been at the center of culture, community, and information for thousands of years. In many of those tales, the forest played a key role as either a benevolent source of good fortune, or one of hardship. This made sense since most people lived in the rural countryside where nature was a wild landscape providing both sustenance and misfortune. Mirroring the mysteries of nature was the belief that spirits inhabited the forests and that these spirits could either be helpful or dangerous. In fact, before the Age of Enlightenment, most people believed that the existence of spirits and fairy-like beings actually lived in the world around them. A concept that was neither fanciful, or unusual, but a part of everyday life.

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Nowadays, though, we largely attribute the belief in fairies and spirits as something relegated to childhood. An idea that at the age of twelve, I borrowed for a series of stories I wrote featuring “Fairy Trees” which served as portals for fairies to travel between our world and their world. Believing for a long time that I was the first one to come up with this idea, I was surprised to find that a long history of folklore dedicated to forests and trees had existed for centuries. Yet even more surprising was unexpectedly stumbling on a reproduction of an old folklore book while researching the subject for an English course I was taking in college. Originally published in 1874, "The Fairy Family: A Series of Ballads and Metrical Tales" is a marvelous collection of the histories and stories of Elfs, Fairies, Moss People, Pixies, and Gnomes. A veritable treasure trove of ideas for any budding twelve year old writer who would’ve spent many a day pecking away at her father's old Remington typewriter, shamefully pilfering the supernatural motifs therein, if she had only been in possession of such a book.

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The Moss Woman and The Widow

A Tale of Southern Germany

Excerpt from “The Fairy Family” by Archibald MacLaren

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‘Tis the looked-for hour of noontime rest,
And, with faces upturned and open vest,
The weary mowers asleep are laid
On the swathes their sinewy arms have made:
The rakers have gone to the woodland’s edge
That skirts the field like a giant hedge,
Shelter to seek from the blinding heat,
And their humble midday meal to eat.
.
But on there is in that rustic bank
With slender form and delicate hand,
Whose voice a tone of sorrow bears,
And whose face a shade of sadness wears:
She knitting sits apart from the rest,
With a rosy infant at her breast,
Who has played or slept in the fragrant hay,
Near his mother at work in the field all day.
.
Said Karl, when he led his comely bride
To his cottage down by the Danube side—
‘I’ll work till arm and back shall break,
Ere Röschen ever touch fork or rake,’
But, alas for Karl! The fever came,
Stricken was many a stalwart frame,’
And his Röschen the widow’s tear has shed
O’er the grave where his manly form was laid
.
Into the earthy forest shade
Her pensive eye has aimless strayed,
Till it sadly rests on what seems to be
The limb of a prostrate moss-grown tree:
Suddenly down her knitting she flings,
Up to her feed with her child she springs,
For creeping silently, stealthily,
Comes the limb of the prostrate moss-grown tree.
.
Still on it comes, creeping silently,
Then rises erect by Röschen‘s knee.
‘ A Moss-woman!’ The haymakers cry,
And over the fields in terror they fly.
She is loosely clad from neck to foot,
In a mantle of moss from the maple’s root,
And like lichen grey on its stem that grows
Is the hair that over her mantle flows.
.
Her skin like the maple-rind is hard,
Brown and ridge and furrowed and scarred;
And each feature flat, like the mark we see
Where a bough has been lopped from the bole of a tree,
When the inner bark has crept healingly round
And laps o’er the edge of the open wound:
Her knotty, root-like feet are bare;
And her height is an ell from heel to hair.
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A Moss-child clasped in her arms she holds,
Tenderly wrapped in her mantle folds;
A ghastly thing, as huelessly white
As the silver birch in the cold moonlight:
She cries to Röschen, in accents wild —
‘ It is sick, it will die; oh save my child!
For the pitying love you bear your own!’
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The haymakers one by one appear,
And then in a whispering crowd draw near;
As Röschen there with her child they see,
They call to her loudly and urgently:
But clinging about her the Moss-woman stands,
With the strength of despair in clutching hands,
And the tone of despair in her accent wild —
‘ In pity, in pity, oh save my child!’
.
Then Röschen turns and solemnly cries —
‘ May I ne’er be laid where my husband lies;
May my own child perish before my face,
And I never look on his resting-place,
And long, long after him wearily live,
Oh neighbors! If I refuse to give
To this mother help in her agony,
For her babe, to her dear as mine to me.’
.
Her child at once on the ground she lays,
And a moment its rosy cheek surveys,
Then up to her shuddering breast she holds
The babe from the Moss-woman’s mantle-folds:
About her bosom its fingers stray
Like twigs in the breath of departing day,
And like sound of twigs thus lightly stirred
Is its voice, in a low faint wailing heard.
.
With looks of pity and shame and awe
The haymakers silently backward draw,
While the Moss-woman gazes with glistening eye
At the knitting and thread that near her lie:
She snatches them up with a sharp quick cry:
Like leaves in a whirlwind her fingers fly,
And she scarcely seems to have well begun
When every thread on the reel is done.
.
And now the Moss-child’s fingers small
Have stayed their twitching and movements all,
In breathings calm ends its faint low wail,
And maple-brown grows its cheek so pale:
With joy the mother this change beholds,
And wraps it again in her mantle-folds;
Then points to a small round ball of thread
That she by the knitting and reel has laid.
.
Says— ‘ Never again need Röschen wield
The rake in hay or in harvest field,
But calmly at home with her little one bide
In her cottage down by the Danube side:
Let her knitting be ever so fast or free
The end of this ball she never shall see,
And nought from it knitted out-worn can be
Till my sapling grow to a forest tree.’
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The Presence of Trees

Michael S. Glaser

I have always felt the living presence
of trees

the forest that calls to me as deeply
as I breathe,

as though the woods were marrow of my bone
as though

I myself were tree, a breathing, reaching
arc of the larger canopy

beside a brook bubbling to foam
like the one

deep in these woods,
that calls

that whispers home

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The Mouse, The Bird, and The Sausage

Excerpt from “The Grimm's Fairy-Tales” by The Brothers Grimm

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Once upon a time a mouse, a bird, and a sausage became companions, kept house together, lived well and happily with each other, and wonderfully increased their possessions. The bird’s work was to fly every day into the forest and bring back wood. The mouse had to carry water, light the fire, and lay the table, but the sausage had to cook.

He who is too well off is always longing for something new. One day, therefore, the bird met with another bird, on the way, to whom it related its excellent circumstances and boasted of them. The other bird, however, called it a poor simpleton for its hard work, but said that the two at home had good times. For when the mouse had made her fire and carried her water, she went into her little room to rest until they called her to lay the cloth. The sausage stayed by the pot, saw that the food was cooking well, and, when it was nearly time for dinner, it rolled itself once or twice through the broth or vegetables and then they were buttered, salted, and ready. When the bird came home and laid his burden down, they sat down to dinner, and after they had had their meal, they slept their fill till next morning, and that was a splendid life.

Next day the bird, prompted by the other bird, would go no more into the wood, saying that he had been servant long enough, and had been made a fool of by them, and that they must change about for once, and try to arrange it in another way. And, though the mouse and the sausage also begged most earnestly, the bird would have his way, and said it must be tried. They cast lots about it, and the lot fell on the sausage who was to carry wood, the mouse became cook, and the bird was to fetch water.

What happened? The little sausage went out towards the wood, the little bird lighted the fire, the mouse stayed by the pot and waited alone until little sausage came home and brought wood for next day. But the little sausage stayed so long on the road that they both feared something was amiss, and the bird flew out a little way in the air to meet it. Not far off, however, it met a dog on the road who had fallen on the poor sausage as lawful booty, and had seized and swallowed it. The bird charged the dog with an act of barefaced robbery, but it was in vain to speak, for the dog said he had found forged letters on the sausage, on which account its life was forfeited to him.

The bird sadly took up the wood, flew home, and related what he had seen and heard. They were much troubled, but agreed to do their best and remain together. The bird therefore laid the cloth, and the mouse made ready the food, and wanted to dress it, and to get into the pot as the sausage used to do, and roll and creep amongst the vegetables to mix them; but before she got into the midst of them she was stopped, and lost her skin and hair and life in the attempt.

When the bird came to carry up the dinner, no cook was there. In its distress the bird threw the wood here and there, called and searched, but no cook was to be found! Owing to his carelessness the wood caught fire, that a conflagration ensued, the bird hastened to fetch water, and then the bucket dropped from his claws into the well, and he fell down with it, and could not recover himself, but had to drown there.

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Well, that about wraps things up for this week's edition.
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What’s on your mind today?
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I spent September to February, 1997-1998, attending to my dying husband. I did go to work when I absolutely had to, but otherwise, I was at home, with him.
As I reached some point where I thought I would have some explosive crying jag in front of him, I hired a couple of people to spend an afternoon attending him, while I got out for 6 hours one cool, crisp afternoon.
I loaded up a horse,drove my rig to the nearby state park. I rode him for hours in the forest.
I did not see another person anywhere. Just me, my horse, and many square miles of forest.
I left the dedicated trails, headed into the forest so dense, it was a challenge to find a path that allowed my horse enough space to pass between those giant pine trees.
Nobody heard me scream, nobody saw me cry, nobody consoled me, or gave me courage to get through what was inevitable.
The trees kept my secret, helped me understand that when I found myself alone, they would be there for me.
Wish me a good COVID test this morning!
Great essay, my friend.
Edit: I wrote this on the run, apologize for the misspelling. Dammit, if I do not have time to review and correct typos, I should just wait until I do have the time. No disrespect intended.

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"We'll know our disinformation program is complete when everything the American public believes is false." ---- William Casey, CIA Director, 1981

Granma's picture

@on the cusp but accurate Covid results.

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@on the cusp

except for maybe the mount.
I see, said the blind man to the deaf horse...
trees only absorb and occasionally exude.

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Anja Geitz's picture

@on the cusp

Trees are good that way. They are also very wise. But you have to be very quiet to hear their wisdom. Thank you for sharing your story.

Good luck with your test this morning.

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There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. ~ Minnie Aumonier

Lookout's picture

...who is presented as a demon for protecting the forest.
Here's a short telling of the tale (2 pages)
https://www.quia.com/files/quia/users/5tfritz/Gilgamesh_and_the_Cedar_fo...
from the 3rd millennium BC

Although Humbaba is traditionally depicted as an antagonist in the Epic of Gilgamesh , a recently recovered clay tablet from the museum of Sulaymaniyah has shed a different light on this character. This tablet contains a part of the Epic of Gilgamesh , and it is written that “Where Humbaba came and went there was a track, the paths were in good order and the way was well trodden.” ...
In a way, it may be said that Humbaba is portrayed as a sort of benevolent guardian of nature in this version of the story - making Gilgamesh and Enkidu villains as they killed him and chopped down the forest.

https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends-europe/humbaba-monstrous-f...

Gilgamesh cuts down the forests, building ancient cities, eventually (much later) causing erosion which silted the irrigation canals and ultimately ending the Mesopotamian civilization. A cautionary tale of civilizations fight (rather than cooperation) with nature.

On the other end of the spectrum is the man who planted trees...here's a lovely telling.

The Man Who Planted Trees (French title L'homme qui plantait des arbres), also known as The Story of Elzéard Bouffier, The Most Extraordinary Character I Ever Met, and The Man Who Planted Hope and Reaped Happiness, is an allegorical tale by French author Jean Giono, published in 1953.
It tells the story of one shepherd's long and successful singlehanded effort to re-forest a desolate valley in the foothills of the Alps near Provence throughout the first half of the 20th century. The tale is quite short—only about 4000 words long. (30 min)

Loved the theme today Anja. Near and dear to my heart.

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“Until justice rolls down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

Anja Geitz's picture

@Lookout

As the guardian of the forest. I’d say we need a lot more Humbaba’s these days. Especially loved this:

“Through all the forest a bird began to sing: A wood pigeon was moaning, a turtle dove calling in answer. Monkey mothers sing aloud, a youngster monkey shrieks: like a band of musicians and drummers daily they bash out a rhythm in the presence of Humbaba.”

Thanks so much for the stories!

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There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. ~ Minnie Aumonier

Anja Geitz's picture

@Lookout

Just loved this story! Beautifully done all around. Where ever did you run across this?

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There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. ~ Minnie Aumonier

Lookout's picture

@Anja Geitz

Brought to mind those two tales which I've known since college I think, both having strong (and I think complimentary) messages. We can destroy and fight nature dooming ourselves (Gilgamesh is also the first flood story), or we can work with nature healing the scars we have carved in nature.

We just had a rain and our forest world is dripping green. Have a good one!

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“Until justice rolls down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

it is beautiful there
and here in Maine as well
pm your schedule
perhaps we can share a chat

cheers

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Anja Geitz's picture

@QMS

‘‘Tis very lovely indeed.

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There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. ~ Minnie Aumonier

@Anja Geitz

actually sailing on a lake in the middle
of a large forest so won't be able to talk
anyways

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gold_1.PNG

gold is the inverse of the dollar

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Raggedy Ann's picture

Growing up in Taos, there wasn't much to do. I would wander the town/oountryside with only my imagination in hand. I was a secret agent. I was an explorer. I was whatever my imagination said I was, that day. The outdoors were my playground. I would be gone for hours. It was a beautiful time for me. Thanks for helping me conjure up those memories!

Have a beautiful Tuesday, folks! Pleasantry

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"The “jumpers” reminded us that one day we will all face only one choice and that is how we will die, not how we will live." Chris Hedges on 9/11

Anja Geitz's picture

@Raggedy Ann

What a wonderful part of our childhood, when anything and anywhere could be exactly as we wanted it to be. Seems like we could use a lot more imagination these days to build things instead of tearing them down.

Good to see you RA!

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There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. ~ Minnie Aumonier

enhydra lutris's picture

wonderful as the tales the inspire. I grew up pretty much without forests and then somehow wound up living in one for a few years. Glad you have trees to provide shade, comfort and protection, they are very good at that.

BLPines1

treeform4

be well and have a good one.

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That, in its essence, is fascism--ownership of government by an individual, by a group, or by any other controlling private power. -- Franklin D. Roosevelt --

Anja Geitz's picture

@enhydra lutris

Sounds interesting. How did that come about. Do tell!

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There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. ~ Minnie Aumonier

enhydra lutris's picture

@Anja Geitz @Anja Geitz

After I had graduated and was without regular employment or any desire to engage in any. I wound up in the Mendocino Redwoods with a small handful of people on a small parcel about half-way between the coast and Highway 101, several miles North of the Navarro River on a side road off of Hwy 128. Maybe 4 years and then the bottom fell out, we lost the land and went our separate ways.

be well and have a good one

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That, in its essence, is fascism--ownership of government by an individual, by a group, or by any other controlling private power. -- Franklin D. Roosevelt --

Anja Geitz's picture

@enhydra lutris

Sounds very rustic and beautiful. What was your nicest memory?

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There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. ~ Minnie Aumonier

enhydra lutris's picture

@Anja Geitz

one legged woman, weed, wine, and wind in the tree tops.

be well and have a good one

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That, in its essence, is fascism--ownership of government by an individual, by a group, or by any other controlling private power. -- Franklin D. Roosevelt --

Anja Geitz's picture

@enhydra lutris

To hear that! Lol. Smile

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There is always Music amongst the trees in the Garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. ~ Minnie Aumonier

enhydra lutris's picture

@Anja Geitz

the memory isn't as quick as it once was.

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That, in its essence, is fascism--ownership of government by an individual, by a group, or by any other controlling private power. -- Franklin D. Roosevelt --

smiley7's picture

understood; and science now proves what we knew instinctively. Funny that, science, reason.. Know many possessing the forest qualities? Yes, enough, good people to keep on trucking on.

Always a pleasure to read what you are thinking.

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