Rakas kuusi, tai kuusi hyvä, kiitos että tarjoat tämän mainion istumapaikan aivan metsäpolun varrella. Jo ensimmäistä kertaa täällä kulkiessani, syyskuun alussa, heti saavuttuani Mustarinda-taloon, olen pannut sinut merkille ja ajatellut että voisin tulla istumaan syliisi hetkeksi. Näen sen ottamistani valokuvista. Mutta sitten unohdin sinut kokonaan, ja vaikka olen kulkenut tästä ohi lähes päivittäin, en ole kiinnittänyt sinuun mitään huomiota. Vasta muutama päivä sitten, nyt kun syyskuu jo lähestyy loppuaan, huomasin sinut tässä polun varrella ja muistin aiemmat suunnitelmani. Pysähdyin oikeastaan katsomaan outoa kuusentynkää vain muutaman metrin päässä polulla, edessäni. Kuusi on katkennut, mutta sen alin oksa on jäänyt elämään ja sojottaa suurena viuhkana polun yllä. Pysähdyin tähän kohtaan polkua jo kaksi kertaa aiemmin, kuvatessani vanhaa vaikuttavan muotoista haapaa, joka seisoo veistoksellisena tässä lähistöllä. Olin niin keskittynyt miettimään miten saisin sen kuvattua, etten muistanut sinua lainkaan. Vasta kun asetin kamerajalustan aivan lähellesi kuvausta varten tajusin läsnäolosi. Suo siis anteeksi tämä laiminlyöntini, olisinhan voinut tulla luoksesi jo paljon aiemmin. Mutta toisaalta, tuskin olet kaivannut huomiotani, tai yleensä ketään istumaan juurakkopahkallesi, vai miten tätä juuresi päälle kasvanutta muodostelmaa pitäisi kutsua. Se on vallan oivallinen levähdyspaikka, enkä varmaankaan ole ensimmäinen ihminen, joka tässä istuu. Mutta voi olla, että olen ensimmäinen ihminen, joka istuu tässä kirjoittamassa kirjettä sinulle. Ei, en aio ripustaa näitä papereita oksaasi, enkä edes haudata niitä juurellesi, tämä kirje on vain yritys tarkentaa ajatukseni, niin että sinun olisi helpompi aistia ne. En tiedä kykenetkö varsinaisesti lukemaan ajatuksia, tuskin ymmärrät ihmiskieltä, mutta voisin kuvitella, että pystyt jotenkin aistimaan läsnäoloni ja ehkä myös ajatukseni jollakin tasolla. Luonnontieteilijät ovat oivaltaneet, että kasveilla ja varmaan siis kuusillakin ja siten myös sinulla, on erittäin monimuotoiset aistikyvyt ja ne näkevät monen laatuista valoa paljon tarkemmin kuin ihmiset silmillään. Mikseivät ne voisi erottaa ihmisten aikeitakin jollakin tavalla, koska onhan sillä väliä, olenko tulossa kaatamaan puuta, vai rauhallisella mielin tekemään tuttavuutta. Täällä metsässä sinun ei tarvitse pelätä ihmisten ryhtyvän sinua kaatamaan, mutta myrskytuulet tai tykkylumi tai niiden yhdistelmä on kyllä kaatanut monia sukulaisiasi. Aivan tyystin sammaloitunut runko tässä edessäni taitaa olla entinen kuusi, vaikka maassa makaava tuoreempi vainaja onkin koivu. On niin harvinaista nähdä elämän eri vaiheet samassa metsässä, kun niin suuri osa metsästä on niin sanottua talousmetsää, enemmän tai vähemmän saman ikäisistä puista koostuvia viljelmiä, plantaaseja. Mahdatko itsekään tietää, miten etuoikeutettu olet, kun saat kasvaa täällä elämäsi alusta loppuun kaikessa rauhassa? No, rauha on tietysti suhteellinen käsite, kulkeehan tästä ihmisiä ohi vähän väliä, mutta silti. Runkosi on täynnä kaikenlaisia jäkäliä, ja niitä kasvaa myös vanhoilla kuivuneilla alemmilla oksillasi. Ja naavaa, joka on niin kaunis merkki puhtaasta ilmasta, niin ainakin sanotaan. Latvuksesi on komea ja vihreä, ja tämä juurakkopahkasi ei näytä haittaavan sinua mitenkään, ellei haitaksi lueta sitä, että jokunen ihminen saattaa asettua tähän hetkeksi istumaan. Se on itse asiassa hyvä muistutus siitä, ettei kannata hävetä vammojaan ja erilaisia ”epämuodostumia”, joita elämä meille tuottaa. Niistä voi olla joskus vaikka hyötyäkin, jos ei itselle, niin ohikulkijoille. Kiitos siitä rohkaisusta, jos se tuli mieleeni sinulta. Ja näine eväineni jatkankin nyt matkaani. Kaikkea hyvää sinulle tulevan talven varalle, ja kiitos vielä vieraanvaraisuudestasi!
Kära Björk, trevligt att träffas så här, smått överraskande, på stigen. Jag var egentligen på väg att besöka den avlidna granen här intill, när jag plötsligt fick syn på den mjuka gröna mossa som växer på din stam där den förgrenar sig, som en liten bekväm fåtölj, faktiskt. Och solen lyste så inbjudande på den, att jag bestämde mig för att sätta mig ner en stund framför kameran och skriva några ord till dig. Du kanske tycker att det är underligt att jag tilltalar dig på svenska, här mitt i det finska Kajanaland, där nästa språk efter finskan och den lokala dialekten antagligen skulle vara ryska – eller då engelska eller tyska eller tom tjeckiska, som några av gästerna i Mustarinda-huset här intill förmodligen talar, ifall de råkar gå här förbi. Men jag väljer att skriva till dig på svenska, inte så mycket för din skull som för min egen skull, för att se hur det känns. För ärligt talat tror jag inte det spelar någon roll för dig vilket språk jag skriver på. Men det som kanske, eventuellt, och förhoppningsvis har någon betydelse är, ifall jag lyckas artikulera mina tankar med hjälp av att skriva, eller inte. Och än så länge har jag bara pladdrat på för att komma igång. Har jag något att tala om för dig eller något att säga ens mig själv just här, just idag? Det är min sista dag i Mustarinda, min sista dag i den här gamla tysta skogen som jag lärt mig att älska, med sin tjocka mjuka mossa, sina många döda träd liggande om vartannat, och sin friska luft som är så mjuk och härlig att andas. Jag kommer att sakna den här skogen, det vet jag, och jag kommer också att försöka besöka skogar som finns närmare mig, senare. Jag hoppas du njuter av din boplats här, intill stigen, och nära kärret som öppnar sig genast på andra sidan den. Du har faktiskt två målade färgklickar på en av dina stammar, en blå och en grön, för att markera de två stigarna som här är sammanslagna, och som förgrenar sig lite längre bort. Du har levt här en bra stund, antar jag, även om du inte är någon åldring precis. Och det kan hända att du faktiskt är äldre än du ser ut, ifall det varit ont om ljus eller näringsämnen här; eller så kan det ju hända att du inte är så gammal, men ser äldre ut på grund av de kalla vintrarna med tung snö, som skadat många av granarna här. Eftersom du fäller dina löv är det inte lika farligt för dig, antar jag; dina kala grenar samlar inte på så tunga bördor som sedan kunde knäcka dem. Men mossan jag sitter på är en annan slags riskfaktor. Om den samlar väta skapar den röta, så att du faktiskt kan falla i tu med tiden. Det händer ibland åt gamla träd som har en grenklyka eller en fördelad stam. Förlåt att jag låter som en olycksfågel, jag tror du har det bra här och så vitt jag kan se går det ingen nöd på dig. Jag borde tvärtom vara tacksam för mossan du bär på, för trots att den är ganska våt och kall är den mjuk och behaglig att sitta på, som en kudde avsedd för förbipasserande. Ja, jag vet att den inte är avsedd för det, och jag antar att du egentligen hellre skulle bli av med den – fast det vet jag egentligen inte. Kanske ni har något slags samarbete på gång, mossan och du, precis som det berömda samarbetet mellan svampmyceliet och dina rötter. Men nu spekulerar jag om sådant som jag bara läst om, istället för att lita på mina egna sinnen och förnimmelser här och nu. – Det som kanske är det härligaste med den här skogen är tystnaden. Nu när det inte blåser är det verkligen tyst. Inget avlägset motorbrus – någon enstaka gång ett flygplan, men det är väldigt sällan. Och just nu är det så tyst att pennans skrapande mot papperet känns som rätt högljutt. Eftersom det är vindstilla, kommer myggen fram, trots att det är sent på hösten här. Men solen värmer just nu, och dimman dagarna innan, för att inte tala om mängden regn tidigare, har bjudit på perfekta omständigheter åt all slags mygg att ta en extra runda. – Det är så tyst att jag trodde mig höra kameran gå av. Det är oberoende av dags att avsluta det här brevet. Jag beklagar att jag inte egentligen har några tankar att artikulera just nu. Men jag är glad och tacksam att jag fått sitta en stund i din famn, och önskar dig allt gott framöver. Tack!
Dear Spruce, dear deceased or departed, or whatever is the proper term for a respected and beloved dead being – because there is no doubt that you are dead, dead as a spruce, that is. Your body, broken and now separated from the roots, lies on the ground dry and dead like a skeleton, except that you are steaming with life of all forms – insects, fungi, larvae, lichen, microbes, and all the things that I cannot see. And who knows what mice or other furry creatures have nests further up in your former crown? You are clearly serving your community also while dead. I am not sure how you decide whether a tree is dead or not, because some trees are able to grow new roots from their trunk, or at least new branches to form new trunks growing from a trunk fallen on the ground. Perhaps that is not possible for spruces, though. I have never seen one on any of the spruce cadavers, and there are plenty of them in this forest. On the other hand, your roots seem intact, everything below ground, although invisible to me, could be alive, and simply waiting for the right moment to throw some green needles up in the air. Well, deciduous trees are doing that, creating a whole selection of new stems and young trees from the cropped stump, but again probably not the spruces, I’m afraid. And it looks like your wood has been quite thoroughly eaten by insects, perhaps before you even fell to the ground – that could have been one of the reasons that you fell in the first place. Usually the spruces around here seem to fall with their roots open, like losing their grip of the ground in a storm. But you are really broken midway, at the waist, well, at knee height, or wrists would probably be closer, if we use human measurements. – I was attracted to you at first by the huge mushrooms that grow like small parasols from your stump, and then by the intricate forms of your almost bare branches that spread out from the trunk on the ground. Sitting on a corpse, on a cadaver, is morbid of course; and thinking of you as a rotting heap of life, all kinds of creatures busily trying to decompose you to minerals and nutrients, like a giant compost, does not make sitting here more pleasant. In actual fact your trunk seems rather steady and comfortable to sit on, not that different from a wooden bench, despite your rounded form and the slightly irregular, itchy bark. There is a small ant nest (small compared to the giant ones all around here) right at my feet – hopefully they are not disturbed by me, planning a defence attack. The sun is still warm, and it is very quiet, no wind. I wonder how man winters you have already been lying here, not that many, I suppose, but that is hard to know. There is no moss growing on top of you, but that might be simply because your branches keep you raised from the ground. And how many years will it take for you to decompose completely and turn into soil? In some places here you can still see the contours of a tree trunk in the moss, although most of the wood is gone and the moss cover is continuous. You are fertilizing the soil, I guess, whereas a human body decomposing on the ground would excrete poisonous substances, at least that is what I have heard. There is something fascinating in wood being such a living material, although it is clearly part of a dead tree, or a formerly living tree. I imagined I would sit here and think about death and dying, and the value of being able to witness the processes of decay instead of being protected from all such “unpleasant details” by an overly hygienic and artificially maintained almost sterile environment. But instead I am thinking of wood and what a marvellous material it is. - I apologize for disturbing your well-earned rest here in the forest with such human-centred and utilitarian thoughts. And, on the other hand I have to thank you for your generosity, because I like to think that you gave me those thoughts here, in some manner. Thus, many thanks for this moment on your beautiful trunk, and all the best for the coming winter!
Dear Spruce, or dearest spruce, thank you for providing this splendid seat right next to the forest path. Already walking here for the first time, in the beginning of September, right after arriving in Mustarinda house I noticed you and thought I could come and sit on your lap for a while. I can see from the photos I took. But then I completely forgot you, and even though I have walked past here almost daily, I have not noticed you at all. Only a few days ago, now, when September is nearing its end, I noticed you here by the path and remembered my previous plans. I stopped actually to look at the strange spruce stub only a few meters in front of me on the path. The spruce is broken, although its lowest branch remains alive and spreads like a large fan above the path. I stopped on this spot on the path already twice before while video recording the old impressively formed aspen tree, which stands sculptural here nearby. I was so concentrated on pondering how to record it, that I did not remember you at all. Only when placing the camera stand right next to you, I realized your presence. Please forgive my negligence, I clearly could have come to you much earlier. On the other hand, you have probably not missed my attention, or anybody to sit on your root burl, or what should I call this formation that grown on top your root. It is quite a fine lay-by and I am probably not the first human to sit here. I might be the first human, however, to sit here writing a letter to you. No, I will not hang these sheets of paper on a branch of yours, nor even burry them under your roots; this letter is only an attempt at focusing my thoughts, so that it would be easier for you to sense them. I am not sure if you can actually read thoughts, I doubt that you understand human language, but I could imagine that you can sense my presence in some way and perhaps also my thoughts on some level. Scientists have realized that plants and therefore surely spruces, too, and you as well, have very diverse sensory capacities and they can see different qualities of light much better than humans with their eyes. Why couldn’t they distinguish the intentions of humans in some manner, because it sure does make a difference if I am coming to fell the tree or in a peaceful mind to make acquaintance. Here in this forest, you do not have to be afraid of people beginning felling you, but storm winds or pack snow or their combination have felled many of your relatives. A completely moss-covered trunk in front of me might be a former spruce, although the more recent deceased lying on the ground is a birch. It is so rare to see all the stages of life in the same forest, when such a large part of the forest is so-called commercial forest, plantations of trees of more or less the same age. I wonder whether you know yourself how privileged you are, while allowed to grow here in peace from the beginning to the end of your life? Well, peace is of course a relative notion, there are people walking past here all the while, but anyway. Your trunk is full of all kinds of lichen, and they grow on your old and dry lower branches. And beard lichen, which is such a beautiful sign of clean air, at least so they say. Your crown is handsome and green and this root burl of yours does not seem to bother you at all, unless you count as a bother that some human beings might sit down here to rest for a while. It is actually a good reminder not needing to feel ashamed for one’s handicap or the deformities that life creates on us. They can even be useful sometimes, if not for oneself, then for passers-by. Thank you for that encouragement, if it came to my mind from you. And with these provisions I will now continue my walk. All the best to you for the coming winter and thank you once more for your hospitality!
Dear Birch,
Nice to meet like this, accidentally, on the path. I was on my way to visit the deceased spruce tree nearby when I suddenly noticed the soft green moss that grows on your trunk at the point where it is divided into several branches, almost like a small comfortable armchair, really. And the sun was shining on it in such an inviting way that I decided to sit down for a moment in front of the camera and write a few words to you. Perhaps you find it strange that I address you in Swedish here in the heart of Finnish Kainuu, where the next language after Finnish or the local dialect probably would be Russian – or then English or German or even Czech that some of the guests in the Mustarinda house nearby probably speak if they happen to pass by here. I choose to write to you in Swedish, however, not so much for our sake but for my own sake, to see how it feels. Because, honestly speaking, I don’t think it matters to you what language I write. What perhaps, possibly and hopefully matters is whether I manage to articulate my thoughts with the help of writing or not. So far, I have only chatted away in order to get going. Do I have something to tell you or even something to tell myself right here, right now today? This is my last day in Mustarinda, my last day in this old silent forest that I have learned to love, with its thick soft moss, the many dead trees lying here and there and the fresh air, which is so soft and lovely to breath. I know I am going to miss this forest, and I will try to visit forests closer to me, later. I hope you enjoy your living quarters here next to the path and near the bog that opens immediately on the other side. You have two painted slashes of colour on one of your trunks, a blue and a green one, to indicate the two paths that are here merged and divide into separate paths a bit further on. You have lived here for quite a while, I suppose, although you are not exactly an old one. Perhaps you are older than your looks if there has been a shortage of light or nutrients here; or then you are not that old but look older due to the cold winters with heavy snow, which has damaged many of the spruces here. Because you shed your leaves it is not as dangerous for you, I guess; your bare branches are not gathering such heavy burdens that would then break them. But the moss I am sitting on involves another kind of risk. If it will gather moisture, there will be rot and you might actually fall in two pieces with time. That can sometimes happen old trees, which have a forked branch or a divided trunk. Forgive me for sounding like a jinx, I think you are perfectly fine here and as far as I can see there is nothing wrong with you. On the contrary, I should be grateful for the moss that you carry, because despite being rather wet it is soft and pleasant to sit on, like a cushion intended for passers-by. Yes, I know it is not intended for that and I suppose you would prefer to get rid of it – although I do not really know. Perhaps you are engaged in some kind of collaboration, the moss and you, like the famous collaboration between the fungal mycelium and your roots. But now I am speculating about things I only read about rather than trusting my senses and my sensations here and now. – The loveliest thing about this forest is the silence. Now when there is no wind it is really silent. No distant motor noise – a single airplane occasionally, and very rarely. Right now, it is so quiet that the sound of the pen scraping against the paper feels loud. While it is calm the mosquitoes appear although it is late autumn here. The sun, however, is warm right now, and the fog during recent days, not to mention the amount of rain earlier, have provided the perfect circumstances for all kinds of mosquitoes to have another round. – It is so quiet I thought I heard the camera stop. In any case it is time to finish this letter. I regret that I don’t really have any thoughts to articulate right now. I am happy and grateful, however, for getting to sit a moment in your “arms” and wish you all the best for the future. Thank you!
