Innocence

As a kid, I talked to trees. And to rocks. I sensed they could hear and understand me, even when my mom and dad couldn’t. In fact, as a kid, I felt everything was alive. Kind of like the Indians.

I collected rocks. Nothing anybody else would deem as special or even collectible, but I chose each rock for a reason. It talked to me. I must have had close to 50 rocks or so, and each had a personality. A few were chert or flint, others a dirty quartz, and many were just plain old ugly rocks. Some of the chert had beautiful streaks of blue or red. Others were just plain brown or gray. I spent hours just laying them out, looking at them, listening to them. Each one had something to say.

Trees were tall friends. Old and wise. Hugging a tree felt a lot like hugging my grandmother. I can’t describe the feeling, but there was feeling. Trees were solid, understanding. They spoke only rarely, but emitted such goodwill. They comforted me when I felt persecuted, laughed when I played, and always took my side. The ultimate confidant.

Growing up, of course, meant putting away such nonsense. At least we’re taught it’s nonsense. The Indians didn’t think so. They believed everything was not only alive, but possessed a consciousness, and that the earth itself was a giant organism. They deemed everything sacred. Nothing was merely an object.

I realize now that there’s no scientific proof that rocks possess consciousness of any kind, and to suggest they do is considered lunacy in today’s society. For most of human history, however, most people believed otherwise. Were they just ignorant, as we’re taught to believe, or did they subconsciously know something that we’re chosen to discard as myth?