Hello, I'm Liisa

Growing up in Brooklyn, NY, I learned how to ride a bike in Prospect Park, which was, in part, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted – you can find his statue at the NC Arboretum. I took long walks with my grandmother in Green-Wood Cemetery, which has a world-renowned collection of trees and shrubs, and spent countless hours wandering around the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. All of these tree-laden areas provided solace from the city. 

Now, let’s flash forward to 2004, when I first moved to western North Carolina.  Like many, I fell in love with the area, and with it came my love of trees. Here’s a little tale I wrote about one of my forest adventures that I’d like to share with you…

 

The Language of Trees

He said if I listened carefully, I could hear the sounds of the “little people.” About 15 years ago, I worked on a writing project that connected me with one of the extension agents in Madison County. We got to know each other during this time and shared stories about our favorite regional spots. He told me of a place near Max Patch where he said it was not uncommon to hear voices of the “little people.” “Little people?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “A mystical and magical group who live in the woods, often near water, tend to be slightly mischievous, but usually mean well.” I was intrigued. 

So, I headed out one early morning and set up a simple campsite secluded near a small stream, about a quarter of a mile from Max Patch. I was surrounded by woods, and in a spot, the treetops formed a circle above that allowed some sky and soft light to filter in. It was akin to a cathedral in the forest. It was as if the trees were holding hands. I felt protected by their presence. 

I hiked during the day. It was late summer, and the forest was thick. The air was dense with the sweet scents of cedar and pine. The occasional warm breeze rustled the sun-tinged leaves and worked to absorb the sweat on my skin. I saw no one and was happy about that. I’ve always had the weird ability to see faces in trees. I think this strange phenomenon is called pareidolia or something like that. In any event, I was certainly not alone. I had company at just about every turn. “Oh look, there’s an old man smoking a pipe and over there – two lovers in an embrace.” These trees had stories to tell. I wanted to hear them.

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After an 8-mile hike, I returned to camp and waited for nightfall. As I hunkered down in my sleeping bag, I heard them. There were voices. There were low whispers and busy, yet subtle, chatter. There were rustlings. I whispered back. There was silence – then more chatter. With each breeze, a new conversation emerged. “Little people,” I thought to myself. Not sure. I think it’s the trees. It was their time – time to release their spirits and to share their musings. I drifted off listening to their stories. I still can’t say for sure if some little people weren’t there, too. 

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So, now that I’ve told you one of my stories, let’s hear some of yours. Contact us here.