She used to receive little trinkets from her admirers. Feel soul-stirring frequencies reverberate through the Black Earth, awakening her divine nature. She listened to their soft pleas in the wind, asking for protection and guidance. They even looked to her for enlightenment, pondering life’s purpose at the base of her trunk. She loved them.
Worst of all, they used to use all of her—bark, acorns, and leaves. In fact, her presence alone was enough to incite deep joy.
Her admirers were Afro-Indigenous stewards: people whose traditions, rituals, and ceremonies honored her in ways that nurtured her life and kept the balance of the land. She thrived in their care, alive with the drumming, the laughter, the joy, the reverence.
Then the slave trade came. It tore them away. It severed the line of connection, scattering their descendants, and with it, her tribe. Now, the frequencies don’t fluctuate, and the drumming has ceased. The air is uncomfortably still…a lower frequency.
She doesn’t have her admirers anymore.
Her admirers kept her alive. Her tribe was her life. She became a part of their traditions, keeping track of the new babies and descendants. She cries silently in the wind now, hoping to see them again.
