Extra-extra Virgin

Does the sound of the wind through thick tree branches more than speak to you? But send pure delight through your whole being, or perhaps give you sinusitus head aches? On both accounts I must nod...

But seen from the soothing side, the sound and feel of the wind in trees stirs feelings of contentment and a certain longing. Oh, to be so high on a mountain that I can see other layers of these sleeping giants, or maybe to wander again through a forest as a gale rages above swirling tops – feeling safe and at homoe amongst my “friends”.

I’m not a tree-hugger, but love trees. What I’m about to tell is sacred. NO, I wasn’t dubed. If you laugh I must warn that you’re on the wrong Blog.

In a place called Strathmiglo in Perth shire (Scotland) I once lived and worked for a short time with faith healers. Walking with the elderly lady in the nearby Achtermachtie woods one cold very windy afternoon, I glanced back and there it was. Forgotten were the elderly lady, black Labrador and brambles as I stared at something close to a giant spiral of misty shadow amongst trees and leafs. A ghost? Transparent mist particles? I don't know, but for knowing it was something greater than the ordinary. It never moved, but silently it watched over us. I believe this without doubt. Thereafter, I could feel and sometimes see more than one – yes they were there always. Probably have been there amongst ancient oaks and birch forever.

The wind in trees as another meaning and once again I'm coming with a story. The old farm house has a huge gum-tree outside the wire-fence surrounding the once marvelous old garden. Into this tree I once invited a little friend who promptly fell out like a bag of potatoes and then quite peeved joined the adults who tried soothing the tears away with tea out of cornflower blue cups. I now use those with the matching saucers to enjoy earl gray tea on Sunday mornings.

The bees used to hu-hum-humm in this tree too, during December months.

The two massive big and round big pine trees in the back garden are old. On early peaceful evenings from beneath a thorn tree one gets lost in thoughts that go absolutely nowhere. Silence roams the veldt, accompanied by the occasional calling of a lamb, little bird or partridges and nothing much else. Sealing the moment is a range of mountains basked in orange-pink and crimson red with waving grassland sparkling yellow in the foreground. And one just knows that the soft flutter apart from homing pigeons is that of the big trees praying.

This is when we were told and what I still like to believe.

As I wrote this, a gray-green dried leaf darted in by the sliding door and landed right here between me and the keyboard.

I'm taking it home today, as a beacon shining with hope or understanding or something similar...