Việt Nam•14/06/2024
Southern Northern Vietnam
Northern women
Southern women
Southern Vietnam
(GLO) - Sometimes I wonder, if I gave up everything I have just to return to the forest, what honest words would I have to express?
The longing for the forest "teased" me on my return, accompanied by heartfelt words. Suddenly, I felt a strange stirring within me, as if I could leave behind all the worries of life, leaving only myself with the forest, its plants, trees, and animals.
On a calm afternoon, I sat for a long time under a tree, listening to the rustling of the mountain wind and the chirping of birds. Then, in the distance, I saw streaks of golden sunlight, and further still, the serene, cool trees. I called it the "happy forest trees," like the title of a film that was shown on Vietnamese television.
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For many, returning to the forest is about listening to the truth. Photo: Minh Tien |
So, when I decided to ride my motorbike to visit the officers on duty at the forest protection management station located deep in the Kon Von II forest (Kbang district), I put on my headphones to listen to music to boost my spirits and regain my determination. The haunting voice of Den Vau resonated in his music video "Music of the Forest".
When the rangers learned of my intention, they advised me to wait for a sunny day. They said it was raining now, the roads were slippery, and this was the most remote, isolated, and difficult station to reach. They also said that if I still wanted to go to the forest this season, I should leave a little earlier because those who left late often encountered rain. I listened and said "yes," but I was determined to go. Just as they said, the long journey was deserted, with only occasional encounters with people returning from working in the forest. As the car began to climb the hill, the forest rain poured down, obscuring everything.
I sat under the canopy of red leaves. The forest leaves seemed noisy yet silent. And beneath each tree, it seemed as if they held true words. Suddenly, illusory images of childhood flooded back. I remembered myself 30 years ago. The little girl who, years after leaving the village and the forest, still fondly remembered the old place she loved. I remembered the lonely hut on the edge of the forest in the evenings, her solitary figure in the wind and mist. I remembered the vast expanse of white blossoms fluttering in the air along the path my friends took to the forest to gather firewood and pick bamboo shoots. Sometimes, that memory brings me back to the purity of my soul, giving me the strength to overcome the inherent sadness and weariness of the twilight.
I remember enjoying standing under the trees, gazing up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves, letting it fall on my hair, listening to the whispers of stories told by the trees. Listening to the truthful words from the forest, yet feeling a sense of anticipation. It was a journey between dream and reality, to a place of spiritual purity. Occasionally, in my dreams, I'm haunted by vast, deep green forests, by hunched backs carrying bundles of produce, diligently emerging from the woods. I don't know when it happened, but I've been bewitched by the forest.
Beneath the canopy of the forest, with its endless, wondrous colors of chlorophyll and the changing shades of the leaves, I felt the need to be honest with myself. I was honest enough to once again gaze upon the delight and wonder I felt when the forests were left bare. Then, on chance encounters, I found them occasionally dyed a vast expanse of yellow and red during the changing seasons. They were stirring with vibrant energy, ready to burst forth with new leaves.
Later, I had the opportunity to visit the Krong base area again. My friend greeted me with a promise of an exciting trek through the forest, to visit the primeval forest right next to his village. Looking up, I could see the towering ancient trees. The green stretched endlessly before my eyes. Rarely is there a place with such a beautiful path into the forest, with so many majestic trees swaying in the wind.
You led me to visit the tree that commemorates the early days of the resistance war. I touched the rough, calloused bark of the rosewood tree, its texture rough against my palm. And a little above my head, there was a raised area of the tree's flesh with a large hole in the middle. That was the mark of a shrapnel fragment embedded during the fierce years of war.
I walked through small streams, through cool, green canopies of forest. Above, stood an ancient forest. The forest had preserved the land, keeping the small village peaceful after countless storms of nature. My friend turned to me and said, "Walk slowly to hear the forest breathe." Each step was as silent as the touch of each blade of grass. You moved very lightly, occasionally stopping, looking up at something in the canopy, listening, and then whispering words to yourself.
I remember the poet Robert Lee Frost once saying, "In the woods there are many paths, and we choose the one uncharted." I realized a lesson: the forest, like people, has no truer words than the guidance of the heart. The older and more barren the forest becomes, the more it needs deep feelings from the heart. Of course, for each person, no true words will last forever if the forest is no longer a sacred realm of land and vegetation, where honest words to the forest will forever resonate.
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