Picture this: You’re at your campsite. It’s summer, the sun shines through the trees and sparkles as it hits dust particles. You’re finishing a sandwich. The perfect scene is set to walk some trails. You don’t bother with shoes because the ground is soft, much easier on bare feet than cement or gravel. Along the trail you walk, until you hear the tinkly whisper of a July river. The riverbed is deep enough to indicate spring would hold an impressive amount of water, but as it is, there are more stepping stones than reasons to need them. But there is still some water. You walk up the river, observing various footprints in the mud, and root windows along the bank. You hum. The world feels alive, smells alive with forest-fresh oxygen. You haven’t heard cars in a long time. Only breezes. Deer munch on undergrowth as you pass.
Eventually you turn around in order to rejoin the trail and continue through the forest.
Only, you can no longer find where you entered the riverbed, even though you’re much better at navigating forests than cities. After some searching, you decide to tromp off toward the spot at which you would likely run into the trail. You know where the trail should be because you’ve walked it before.
However, all you see are subtle hills and dry creekbeds. You figure you’ll stumble upon the trail shortly. You’re used to Stoney Creek, where you can only get so lost. You keep walking over hills, around bumblebees turning in sunbeams, past forest flowers and shrubs. You come upon a hill steeper than it should be. You pause, and have a bit of a think.Climb it? Go around? Go back? Forward would be shorter than retracing your steps at this point. Probably. You remember that you’re in an unknown forest that was down long country roads, so you don’t know how big the forest really is. You don’t know if there are coyotes, or bigger. You see tiny handprints around a puddle, and figure the Faeries have taken you. (you learn later that those were raccoon prints, though they look suspiciously like tiny people hands)
The sun sinks toward the horizon, and since you’re in foothills, you remember that sunset is much faster where you are than if you were in flat country. The forest still feels very alive, and you ask it for help. Please, can you let me out. Night is coming, and that sandwich was hours ago, and my feet are bare. Please, forest, please, I’ll write a story for you. Promise. Watch how fast I can write it. Please.
You top the next hill, and find your camp. Your friends are worried, but you’re back. And you owe the forest a story.
This, Puddle: A Tale for the Curious, is that story. It took seven long years and many huge life changes to find its way to this book-form. I’ve included healing meditations I used along that journey. Another other big influence on this book was a very useful young adult literature class I had in college, around the same time as the camping experience. The final project was to put 20 hours into one of ten options. I chose Write Your Own Novel, which pushed this tale in front of the many, many that I had started but that had fizzled out in the name of another story.That was one of the most useful final exams I have ever encountered, and my feedback included that I should finish the tale. And here it is.
I love books where the forest walks and talks. I’ve read the Narnia books countless times. They’re perfect if you want to put yourself in a nice mood before falling asleep at night. I always liked the trees best. My favorite Lord of the Rings characters were the Ents. The Secret Garden’s magic healed the characters just by existing. It was more than a literary device for symbolism and plot. The garden was an outside green space where people could practice being people, with all the love, laughter, and tears involved. I see the world as a secret garden, and felt there needed to be another book in the world where trees were main characters.
I love the nonjudgmental approach to life that trees take. Most of the time, they don’t really care what anyone else does. They’re just busy growing, being beautiful, and existing. I morally struggled with publishing my own book because that meant trees at some point had been cut down. At the same time, this is life after death, and loving books, and the stories they hold, honors the spirit of that tree.
Begin.
Eventually you turn around in order to rejoin the trail and continue through the forest.
Only, you can no longer find where you entered the riverbed, even though you’re much better at navigating forests than cities. After some searching, you decide to tromp off toward the spot at which you would likely run into the trail. You know where the trail should be because you’ve walked it before.
However, all you see are subtle hills and dry creekbeds. You figure you’ll stumble upon the trail shortly. You’re used to Stoney Creek, where you can only get so lost. You keep walking over hills, around bumblebees turning in sunbeams, past forest flowers and shrubs. You come upon a hill steeper than it should be. You pause, and have a bit of a think.Climb it? Go around? Go back? Forward would be shorter than retracing your steps at this point. Probably. You remember that you’re in an unknown forest that was down long country roads, so you don’t know how big the forest really is. You don’t know if there are coyotes, or bigger. You see tiny handprints around a puddle, and figure the Faeries have taken you. (you learn later that those were raccoon prints, though they look suspiciously like tiny people hands)
The sun sinks toward the horizon, and since you’re in foothills, you remember that sunset is much faster where you are than if you were in flat country. The forest still feels very alive, and you ask it for help. Please, can you let me out. Night is coming, and that sandwich was hours ago, and my feet are bare. Please, forest, please, I’ll write a story for you. Promise. Watch how fast I can write it. Please.
You top the next hill, and find your camp. Your friends are worried, but you’re back. And you owe the forest a story.
This, Puddle: A Tale for the Curious, is that story. It took seven long years and many huge life changes to find its way to this book-form. I’ve included healing meditations I used along that journey. Another other big influence on this book was a very useful young adult literature class I had in college, around the same time as the camping experience. The final project was to put 20 hours into one of ten options. I chose Write Your Own Novel, which pushed this tale in front of the many, many that I had started but that had fizzled out in the name of another story.That was one of the most useful final exams I have ever encountered, and my feedback included that I should finish the tale. And here it is.
I love books where the forest walks and talks. I’ve read the Narnia books countless times. They’re perfect if you want to put yourself in a nice mood before falling asleep at night. I always liked the trees best. My favorite Lord of the Rings characters were the Ents. The Secret Garden’s magic healed the characters just by existing. It was more than a literary device for symbolism and plot. The garden was an outside green space where people could practice being people, with all the love, laughter, and tears involved. I see the world as a secret garden, and felt there needed to be another book in the world where trees were main characters.
I love the nonjudgmental approach to life that trees take. Most of the time, they don’t really care what anyone else does. They’re just busy growing, being beautiful, and existing. I morally struggled with publishing my own book because that meant trees at some point had been cut down. At the same time, this is life after death, and loving books, and the stories they hold, honors the spirit of that tree.
Begin.