When I was little we had an orchard. I can still see my grandmother standing there when I snapped a branch off the tree and waved it like a wand.
"Ooooo," my grandmother said. "You just hurt that tree."
"How do you know?"
"Because it told me."
This was all said in the spirit of play--she wasn't scolding me for tree abuse. But ever since then I have always thought of trees as beings with stories to tell. If only I could hear them.
I have been missing my grandmother something fierce lately.