Walking away from the gathering, surrounded by fast-approaching darkness, they marched through the trees towards the river. A well-developed intuition guided them. “The old tree, master of time, colorful memory of those whose voice still echoes the river’s pass walks with us”. Noe told herself. She whispered in her mind the images of the first time they visited the area. “We should never speak while walking around this side of the rocks,” someone said during one of the past tribal meetings. “Allow earth’s rhythm to speak its messages as it has done for those who have wandered the path before us.”
Remembering this, she felt closer to her daughter. Each journey they took in search of the forest’s voice destroyed the baggage that life built between them. Reaching out to her, she brought her close and slowly kissed her forehead.
The music from the evening prayers lingered in the air, a reminder of where they were. The melody moved through the forest, adapting itself to the space between living creatures and everything on its passing. Slow and dreamy, like a lullaby for the mind, inviting them into solitude.
Old branches hanged from their youthful siblings, swaying in a timeless dance. The moss moved beautifully with the gentle wind, triggering a need to fall into the moment. Noe looked into her daughter’s eyes. It felt as if the night had stopped, only for them, and for their incredible meeting with the passing twilight.
Away from the other’s speech, silence found a resting place within them, enhanced by their awareness of the shimmering cosmos and the pulse of the unseen wildlife around them. The redwoods forest had a primitive presence that evening — no electronic devices, no entertaiment. Nothing was pushing them into any specific actions. It was just life, nature, the vibrant push, experiencing through them its turning and shouting on its own imminent volition.
“The world has an uncontrolled systemic sense of transformation slaved to the thought of time in our preconceptions. We are no different”. For Noe, the majestic presence of nature in these parts had an ancestral calling. “Nothing can deny the truth of a cyclical returning of the species to their primal stages of existence.” Her mom repeated these words to her as a child, with the same emphasis she used towards Enea.
Her daughter started a small fire. A bunch of dry leaves and thin branches sparked their radiance into the blackness around them. Noe poured the water in the pot, reaching into her pouch for some fresh leaves of tea.
The night had reached its full embrace by the time the voices began. They spoke of the new man’s responsibility and the crucial relationship the mother and daughters of this new age had towards the new seasons at hand. As witnesses to the trees’ embrace, they agreed to the voice’s advice concerning raising a generation of rhythm seeking minds. Poet warriors whose concern with the wonder of life was more than a duty but a significant driving force.
Next morning, they did two hours of yoga by the riverbanks. Sunrise flickers shinned above the quiet currents. They swam, naked, like creatures from a distant past.
The river’s cold water moved south, perhaps they too one day will join its rhythm, traveling into the magnificent blue, but for now, they walked back to the gathering’s fire.