Goddess in a Twig by Sara Wright

In 2024, science seems to be catching up with reality. “A rapid succession of peer-reviewed studies and reports all point to a single unambiguous conclusion: that Canada’s unqualified claims of ‘sustainable forest management’ belie a reality of widespread forest degradation”. 

Almost 36 million acres of forests have been clear cut in Quebec and Ontario alone. Canada still has six percent of old growth forests left but clear cuts almost exclusively. Maine has one tenth of a percent of old forests remaining but says it maintains a few limits on clear cuts (the research is ambiguous and around me we have mostly clear-cut mountains, so I am deeply suspicious). 

Why should we care? 

A new crop of trees will be moving north into Canada along with the rest of the migrants (birds, animals, understory/woodland plants) because of a warming climate and loss of habitat. Too many people.

The Old Ones that could pass on the genes, the wisdom of the forest, have totally disappeared in Maine. In Canada these old seed trees are the first to be clear cut because they fetch the best prices.

Who will help the seedlings develop new roots on bare pesticided/herbicided ground? Earth’s underground crocheted net unravels its life force as I write.

If this isn’t enough last year 40 million acres of forests burned in Canada. Clear cutting creates a perfect storm for burning hotter, longer, more frightening fires. 

Suddenly I am grateful for mounds (of what I hope) is melting snow.

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The wind was a howling banshee. Almost manic. It was impossible to be outside for long even though the sky was azure blue. My dogs still needed a walk, and so we climbed our hill. 

Above me silver shards swept by overhead.

The trees might be thrashing wildly but those pewter tips caught my attention. Poplar pussy willows bursting under a cobalt sky.

Oh, the poplars are flowering!

Bare trees bending bony fingers into the wind, waving me into Now. 

Wonder struck. For a moment I am fully Present.

I stared upwards until I couldn’t – trying to follow silvery tips. Freed from the specters of future tree slaughter or wild – fires burning out of control.

Shivering pewter puffs. I strained to see the details of just one chestnut hooded twig, imagining the feel of one soft gray flower…

What made me look down?

In front of me a stubby branch was laying on the ground.

I snatched it up with a hunger I didn’t realize I had.

Oh, this had been the first year that I hadn’t found pussy willows since I was a child…

‘I’m so glad to meet you,’ I said to the twig as I thanked the poplar that sucked lead from polluted ground.

Up and down the road I went searching for another, but no, just this one.

I looked again.

That when I saw the Goddess. The Old Ones were dying but new life was bursting out of a budded poplar. She Lives.

The trees had spoken; they knew I loved them. Together we might be powerless to change the trajectory humans are on, but joy is still mine to hold they said. 

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I can’t resist adding a bit of natural history. I can’t be the only woman who loves pussy willows!

Poplars are one of the trees in the willow family, and although the branches are thick and their flowers robust, like their cousins, the tufts still burst from chestnut hoods.

I stroked the soft gray flower tenderly, noting the shine on the sleek protective hood. I suspected this catkin was male because male catkins emerge earlier than females and are generally fluffier. Male and female flowers appear on separate trees.

Because all pussy willows emerge in late winter/early spring when it can still be quite cold, these flowers need help staying warm. Pussy willow fur helps trap heat for developing pollen (in the case of a male catkin) or ovules (in the case of a female catkin).

I looked up again imagining the catkins unfolding into dangling flowers that will soon provide food for the first bees, butterflies, bears and bugs! 

Why? Because it’s spring.

The Goddess Rises Again.