More and more I find myself sitting with trees. Last night I was with the Maples as twilight came, dusk. Birds were twittering so that I could have been in the jungle but I was here, listening, feeling, absorbing, touched. And then with darkness, an owl with it’s who, who, who.
Herman Hesse wrote:
So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.