Knowledge truly is a curse.

My leaves shake and shiver in the wind as a plea to my mother. But she does not answer. She has not answered in hundreds of years. I used to believe that she would never leave, in times past when I believed myself to know everything there was to know. In truth, I knew nothing at all. Even now, I only know a fraction of what the earth holds. And as each day passes, I am only becoming more foolish with every piece of knowledge I obtain. As I understand now I will never know all there is to know. No amount of knowledge will ever be enough.

Life feels as if I am chasing something I can never catch. I am always ten steps behind, just trying not to get left behind completely. But I am completely left behind in this new world humans have created for themselves. I yearn for a home that does not exist anymore, and the pieces of nature, the parts of the whole, that are not here anymore. I yearn for who I was. A young and naïve sapling, but happy and hopeful. Everything was easier. When nature simply was. And when all of nature willfully shared thoughts, feelings, soul. It feels as if whenever I take a breath, the world holds its, just waiting for me to breathe my last. And when I eventually do, it will let out the breath it did not realize it had been holding.

But for now, while I live, for mother nature and for all of nature, it lets out a disappointed sigh. Not angry. Simply discouraged. The world underneath my bark and branches, the world far past even my ever-extending roots, is screaming out in pain. Wishing for the help of someone who is far gone. I used to yell out along with it, my trunk groaning and leaves shifting, but I had learned it was of no use. I shiver in glee as a small squirrel races up my bark, leaping all the way to my tallest branch. He perches on a small twig, stretching past my top. His small hand grips onto me with such gentleness. He understands that I, like him, am here for a reason and a purpose. As we are all put here for. Nature understands its purpose, as it always has. But as time passes, some forget.

The runt of a squirrel stares out across the forest, his ear twitching slightly. He pulls an acorn out of his great and wide cheeks, stashing it in a small hollow held within my bark. The same hollow a mother robin and her babies once resided in. And before that, a male owl, searching the moon and stars for a mate. I could remember every creature who resided in it, stretching out across all of time since I was grown. Stretching back to the very first robin who created a small nest for his family in it. Now the cycle would continue with this small squirrel.

His small paws scrape against my bark as he scrambles down, leaping onto the dirt. The only sound to be heard is the faint noise of his claws. He simply sits there for several minutes. He uses his front paw to carefully clean the left side of his head, which is coated in a layer of dust and dirt. After he is satisfied with his work, he runs off through the forest. Along where the squirrel crawled down is a large gash in my trunk. A permanent scar from an axe, a failed attempt by a woodsman who gave up because it wasn’t just my time yet. I feel it constantly, a hum in the background. Joining the hum to form a symphony of sorts are the human factories in the distance, the hum mingling with the ceaseless haze of smoke in the air.

But when I block out these sounds and truly give the earth a chance to talk, and listen to it with all my soul, I still hear the horror and the cries. But I also still hear the beauty. The beauty that has been there all along, there are simply times I have simply been too foolish to hear it, caught up on the problems of the world. There have always been difficulties and drawbacks and always will be, as is life. But life stands strong regardless.

I listen to the small blades of grass swishing together in the gentle breeze, the same way my leaves swish together, harder and harsher the more intense the wind. I hear a baby deer calling for his mother, his voice broken but hopeful. I hear the rolling brook, the same rolling brook I have heard since I was erected into this world, still crashing onto the shore in the same way. I still hear the squirrels’ sharp claws scratching the dirt beneath them as he runs. I can even smell the fresh flowers from a nearby crop of lilac, with its gorgeous purple colors lit up by the afternoon sun.

Maybe I cannot undo what has already been done against nature or fix what cannot be fixed. But there is still beauty in this world. The very point of life that I even tend to forget myself. What is the purpose of life if not to try? The world is still alive. Nature is still within it. This is something I can feel deep past my roots as well. Past the pain and past the grief, there is something still there. A hope for what lies ahead. Hope despite everything.

The squirrels’ little feet fly on the grass, leaving a trail of dust behind him, as he leaps back towards me, his mouth stuffed with acorns. He jumps up onto my trunk and begins scaling it to my small hollow once again. He takes his acorns out one by one, gently placing it within. He runs back down again. And comes back with yet more acorns. The forest begins to play a symphony. Music that can only be heard by those who hear without ears and who know without being told. A sound of joy and peace. I have not heard this song for a lifetime. Or perhaps I just wasn’t listening.

I have seen generation after generation be born, grow old, and die, all underneath my spreading roots. There once were human families who would rest under my roots, dancing and laughing until the sun rose. They had a drink in one hand. A loved one in the other. They would live and die right here, content with their lot in life. And content with their purpose. They were once a part of this world and not simply cursed to be within it. Now people come and go under my roots, spreading out far and wide, with anger and dread in their hearts at the notion of the future.

The little squirrel comes running back once more, his chest heaving from exertion. He deposits his treasures once again. But something catches his eye below before he finishes. He quickly stuffs an acorn back into his mouth, body frozen as he stares down across the forest. His fingers are shaking in fear. The sun is beginning to set now, casting a brilliant orange color down on the world and a spot of light encases the creature, forming a shadow on the ground. He begins to twitch, his ears perked up, body stiff. A small boy emerges from around the bend, staring up at the squirrel. In his outstretched hand are several acorns.

The squirrel cautiously steps backwards as the boy moves forward towards him. “It’s okay.” The young boy says, smiling. “I brought you some snacks.” The squirrel sees the acorns and slowly crawls down towards his hand. He snatches an acorn and runs. But the boy does not move. So, the squirrel comes back, plopping down and resting in his palm as he stuffs acorns into his mouth. The boy still does not move. He simply lets him take the acorns as the two small creatures gaze at each other in wonder.

With all my knowledge, I still know nothing about this world and what resides in it. And yet, life is not knowledge. I still see the good and beauty in life. And I know there is hope. For what is more powerful than that?