I stand on the top point of the hill; balanced on the small rock there, that juts out toward the sky. Looking to the north and down the hill slightly, I see the path that passes the jaguar stone, that place of lurking power on this hill, and beyond it stands my friend the tree. I have spent time in his branches, feeling his movement in the wind. The oceanic swell and flow rocking me sometimes into rest and sometimes listening to my electronic drum beat shifting into the other realms held safe in his embrace. I bring offerings here, small crystals placed in cones on high, craggy bark or the insect ravaged bole. Place rocks from the far off ocean at his feet, and ripe apples in his hair. I fly to this hill often as I come and go between this world and the others. He always with the caress, hug and word of advice. Recently on a visit in this world, I found him toppled over on his side. Some well meaning Park resource folk had cut his insect ravaged side away months before, but now without that weight and balance, the wind has rocked him loose and he rests against the wind and earth. I was fearful he was dead or dying. I ran down to him, circled round him, held his prone trunk. He said “I am still here alive and well. My friend do not fear this change for I am not sad.” But I grieved, I knew the Parks people would cut him up when they found out. But weeks went by and he remained, adapting to his new position. Just last week I visited him, standing in the shelter he creates, the still point while the wind roars past. I gave his trunk a long hug. Even as I imagined what that new place could be like for all of us. I sheltered spot on this cold hill, and a special place for all the animals, I felt my grief come upon me strongly. He said again, “Do not grieve for me. I am here. Even if they do cut me up and haul me away, I still stand here. My roots still reach down through this earth and through the worlds. And I still stand in your memory and in the place between worlds.” The next day I came to visit again, and even though I could see him in my mind’s eye, he was dismembered. Cut to pieces, stacked in neat piles, his trunk shorn of branches. The Wind unfettered and free howls over that part of the hill. Jaguar rock remains, growling at deaf dogs and people passing. And when I step out of my self and balance on that top rock, looking to the north and down the hill, I still see my friend standing tall, arms outstretched to the sky and feet deep in the earth. He still gives me an embrace, a word of advice, and ushers me into the underworld.
