The woman that forgot to listen to cedar

The Woman Who Forgot to Listen to Cedar

So they say there once was a woman whose hands knew cedar.

Her hands knew how to gather. How to split. How to hold and pull the fibers just right. How to weave beauty from what others walked past.

People watched her hands and said,

“She knows.”

So they say, perhaps once, she did.

But time passed.

And so they say, even skilled hands can forget what they once learned.

The woman became busy.

She hurried through her days.

Her feet moved quickly.

Her hands reached before her heart arrived.

She no longer sat quietly among the cedar.

She no longer waited.

She no longer listened.

So they say, when younger ones asked,

“How do you know which cedar is ready?”

She answered:

“You just know.”

But so they say, she no longer did.

One morning she went into the forest.

She found a cedar standing there.

She touched it.

Prepared her hands.

But when she tried to split the cedar, it would not open cleanly.

The fibers twisted.

Snapped.

Refused her hands.

She frowned and said:

“Bad cedar.”

So she tried another.

Then another.

Still the cedar resisted.

So they say, the forest was speaking.

But the woman had forgotten how to listen.

That night she dreamed.

So they say, she saw an old woman sitting quietly, weaving.

No wasted movement.

No hurry.

Only patience.

Only listening.

The younger woman stepped closer.

She said:

“Teach me.”

The old woman shook her head.

“No.”

The younger woman asked:

“Why?”

The old woman placed her hand on the cedar in her lap.

Then she said:

“Because you forgot cedar is alive.”

The younger woman lowered her eyes.

She said:

“I do not hear anything.”

The old woman answered:

“That is because you are listening for words.”

So they say, the younger woman sat in silence.

Then the old woman said:

“Cedar does not speak that way.”

Before dawn the younger woman returned to the forest.

Empty-handed.

No knife.

No basket.

No plans.

Only herself.

She sat beneath the cedar.

She sat a long time.

So they say, at first she heard only herself.

Her thoughts.

Her impatience.

Her wanting.

But the longer she sat, the quieter she became.

Wind moved through the branches.

The scent of cedar wrapped around her.

Birdsong crossed the morning.

The earth breathed beneath her.

So they say, when a person becomes still enough, the world begins to speak.

And something inside her softened.

At last she whispered:

“I remember.”

Not words.

Something older than words.

Respect.

Relationship.

Reciprocity.

So they say, when she gathered the cedar again, her hands had changed.

They were gentler.

They were quieter.

They listened.

And when younger ones later asked:

“How do you know?”

She smiled.

And so they say, she answered:

“First, be quiet enough to listen.”