It is said, that Albert Einstein once stated:
If you want your children to be intelligent,
read them fairytales.
If you want them to be more intelligent,
read them more fairytales.’
Well here is a fairytale for our times...
The Forest
Once upon a time,
There was a beautiful forest.
It grew, high up in the mountains,
And lived by the old ways.
The trees in this forest
Drank clear mountain water -
Fresh and crisp,
Grew deep, strong roots
Into mineral-rich soil
And allowed their young seedlings space
To spread out their evergreen branches
And lift their leaves to the light...
It was even said,
That some retained their youthful, tender leaves for centuries,
Such joy was there
In the act of mere being.
All was just as the God of the Trees
Had imagined and made it for them.
Now, it was not perfect in the hillside forest,
For all trees must fall...
Sometimes a storm tore down a tender sapling,
Or lightning struck a proud pine.
Sometimes, fires wiped out multitudes of firs -
Sickness was not unknown
And every year beloved trees were lost...
But somehow, the hilltop forest carried on,
Regrowing and multiplying in joy,
For it knew its purpose was to love and tend the garden,
Not control it.
Within sight of this hillside forest,
Further down, in the green, rain-washed valley,
Where once there had been much naturally rich soil,
Stood another forest.
It stood within a park
Behind a great wall,
And had grown up beside a beautiful, life-giving stream.
Now, the park was owned by a giant,
Who, it was said,
Owned land for as far as the tallest tree could see.
For many years, this forest had thrived -
Tree surgeons tended the branches of the sick,
Spilling chemicals on the earth
To kill weeds that would suck out minerals,
Meant only for the trees themselves.
Park rangers burnt the old leaves
Lest the people who visited the park slip on them
And usurers erected greenhouses,
In which saplings could grow
Shielded from the wild winds of winter
And the harsh summer sun.
For many years,
Life was safe and sweet for the trees in the park
And they loved their existence behind the wall.
Decades passed...
And the giant became bored -
He had too much of everything.
And anything,
Of which we have too much,
Becomes a poison to the soul.
He began building great factories in the park,
Factories that were said to produce minerals for the many trees...
But after a few years
The stream,
Which had so selflessly watered the great oaks and chestnuts
Became sad and polluted with the overspill from the factories.
She spread her sorrow to the trees.
The prophesied nutrients were limited
As it was rumoured the giant
Had many such walled parks
And was now more concerned with the factories in them,
Than the trees they were meant to help grow.
The forest began to decline.
Still, there were trees in the middle of the great wood,
(Who had never seen the stream themselves
And knew only of its gift of water as legend)
That continued to love life behind the wall.
As yet, the pollution had not reached their roots
And they reminded those who grew beside the stream and saw her pain,
Of the safety of greenhouses,
The chemical liquids that rid the forest of hungry weeds,
The park rangers, who removed dead leaves,
The factories that would make more nutrients for them...
And those who grew near the stream began to believe...
Not their own eyes
But the words of those blind to reality.
More years passed
And more trees grew sick.
The giant made ointments and balms
To ease the trees’ pains
But so great was the malaise
That only some were deemed worthy of the scarce treatment.
Saplings became sick,
Old trees forgot their purpose,
The seeds from the untamed hillside
Could not be controlled
And were feared for their spirit of growth.
The walled forest grew dark.
Even the fellow pines and firs in the park
Would not recognise themselves in their brothers and sisters outside.
Fear closed their eyes
So none looked beyond the wall to the hillside
Where still grew the untouched, wild forest.
It made no matter,
For, as the stream from which the gift of water flowed
And the air from which the great lungs of the forest pulled its life
Was thick with pollutants,
The park-forest’s death was assured.
What it did not know,
Was that the giant really did not care for the trees.
Of course, he liked to look at them
And he liked the adulation of the people who came to walk amongst them
And attributed the beauty of the woods to him.
He even wanted the forest to remain beautiful
So he could rest in her shade
And bask in her exquisite splendour...
But greed is a terrible thing and pride is worse!
They ate up the giant’s soul.
He began to tell the visitors that the trees themselves were to blame
For the forest’s demise.
He started rumours
That only he could halt the death of the sycamores,
The elms, the great oaks...
He started groups and paid politicians to speak his words,
To promote his factories,
And praise his policies...
And all the time,
The forest, thinking itself safe behind the wall,
Died slowly,
Painfully unaware of this great crime.
Meanwhile, on the hillside, above the park,
The wild forest watched and wept.
It wept great tears of sorrow
For her fellow trees
Slain by others’ greed and their own blindness,
Trapped by the need for the safety of the wall.
Now, legend has it
That the tears of those wild firs and pines
Grew.
They grew and swelled into rapid rivulets.
And those rivulets merged,
Surging and growing to be raging rivers,
Tumbling down the hillside
Until they reached the park,
Washing away the wall surrounding the captive forest.
The stream,
Once so polluted
Flowed clean and clear with the tears of the wild trees
And the forests were free...
Once more.
Of course, this is just a fairytale...
but we are all seeds growing somewhere.
Plant wisely,
Watch out for giants
And tell your children fairytales, for as Einstein once said...
By Carolyn McCartney
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