A Question of Time

Monoflora: Part Seven

All day, I watched as a chick struggled to break through its shell. The mother hen sat patient, unmoving, but I wanted to help, to crack the shell myself.

Anders believes that struggle is what makes us strong enough to bear the pain of the world.

Emergence cannot be hurried, he said.

⌘

—from Greta Anderson's Nature Journal,

Vaasa, Finland, 1891

There is healing, kultaseni.

Each morning, Annu made the choice again: to return to her cottage, where human time moved in heartbeats and contractions, in breaking fevers and last breaths.

She lit the copper kettle, arranged her grandmother's healing tools, and ground herbs with reverence—lavender for peace, willow bark for pain, elderflower for fever. Her morning tasks became a soothing ritual that brought fresh hope and purpose to a new day.

She never knew ahead of time who might knock upon her door, but she had learned to welcome the possibility with simple willingness.

Olli's invitation became a refrain in Annu's mind as she worked.

I.

The pounding on her door came suddenly—desperate, relentless. Annu's mortar stilled in her hands.

A young man stood in her doorway, mud caked thick on his boots and splattered up his wool trousers. His dark hair hung damp with sweat despite the morning chill. Though he held his composure, his eyes revealed the urgency of a man facing something beyond his understanding.

“Please,” he said, his voice strained but stoic. “It's Maija, my wife. The baby. Two days now. She's... she needs you.”

Annu gathered her leather satchel and followed him into the gray dawn, where his horse stamped restlessly beside the wagon. The brisk ride passed in silence broken only by creaking wheels and the man's occasional sharp intake of breath and slow exhale, as if he were reminding himself to breathe.

Inside their cottage, the neighbor woman attending Maija looked up with relief, and stepped aside without a word.

Maija lay curled on her side, knees drawn up, clutching the sheet in both hands. She had reached the point where this labor felt endless and she was becoming exhausted by the pain. When the next wave took her, she made no sound—only pressed her face deeper into the pillow, her body rigid, fighting the urge to cry out.

“Maija, dear one, I know you are exhausted from working so hard. I’m here to help you,” Annu said softly, kneeling beside the bed. She placed her palm against Maija's forehead—fever, but not yet dangerous. The girl's pulse was rapid and thready beneath her fingertips.

“How long since the waters broke?” Annu asked the neighbor woman quietly.

“Yesterday morning,” she said. “The pains started strong, but for hours now... nothing has changed.”

Annu reached into her satchel and withdrew a small brown bottle. “Willow bark and raspberry leaf,” she murmured, measuring drops into a cup of water. “This will ease the fever and strengthen your womb.” She lifted Maija's head gently. “Please drink some. Your body needs strength to see you through the birthing.” Maija drank obediently, though her hands trembled around the cup.

Annu's hands moved to Maija's belly, feeling the tight knot of fear and exhaustion that held the girl's body rigid. The child was positioned well enough, but Maija fought against each contraction.

“You're afraid,” Annu said gently. “It's all right. Your body knows what to do.”

As the neighbor woman unfolded fresh sheets, Annu settled beside Maija on the narrow bed. She placed one hand on the girl's forehead, the other on her belly, and began to hum—a low, wordless melody her grandmother had sung during difficult births.

“I'm going to help your baby find the way,” Annu said softly. “But I need you to breathe with me. Don't tense against the pain. Relax into it. Let it carry you, like a wave washes onto the shore.”

Maija's eyes, exhausted, found Annu's face. “I can't—it hurts too much—”

“You can. Your grandmother did this, and her grandmother before her. You carry their strength.” Annu's voice stayed calm and low. “Feel my hands. You're not alone.”

Slowly, Maija began to relax. The next contraction still brought pain, but this time instead of holding her breath, she breathed through it. Her body, no longer fighting itself, began to remember its ancient wisdom.

From Annu Olson’s Forest Codex:

Here is where I disappear. Not myself anymore, but something larger moving through these hands. I become bridge between worlds: the child's dark water-breathing and the bright shock of first air. My palms read the story written in the belly's taut geography. I massage her aching back with fragrant oil, speaking in the old language of comfort:

Run down to sea and greet each wave.

Receive the new one who washes into your arms.

First breath. First cry.

The sound of a soul arriving from a distant beautiful shore.

Later, as I wash the baby with warm water infused with rose petals, and wrap her small body in blankets warmed by the fire, I understand: beauty is not ornament but medicine. The rose petals are my prayer that this child will know gentleness. The honey-light of candles is my blessing that darkness will never enter her life.

---

II.

The next day, old Henrik appeared at her door, one cheek swollen, tears streaming down his weathered face. “The tooth again, Annu. It's driving me mad with pain.” He bowed his head. “I'm sorry to trouble you again. I know you must have many other patients to see.”

She brought him inside, offering him a cup of chamomile tea to calm his nerves. Annu got out her grandmother's good china, the set with cups painted with tiny violets. She wanted the best for Henrik, because even in pain—especially in pain—the whole person, not just their ailing body part, needs tending.

“I hate to be such a bother,” Henrik mumbled as she prepared the tea. “My Astrid, God rest her soul, she would have known what herbs to use. I feel like such a fool, coming to you again.”

In the morning light streaming through her window, Annu could see the infection spreading along his jawline—angry red streaks that spoke of poison moving through his blood.

“It is fine to need whatever you need, Henrik,” she said, “and this cannot wait any longer. In order to heal this infection, the tooth must be removed today.”

Annu prepared her tools with ceremonial care, laying them on clean white linen. She mixed more tea—this time willow bark and valerian root, adding a spoonful of honey for taste and for its healing properties. As Henrik drank, she knelt before him and took his gnarled hands in hers.

“I know you're frightened,” she said softly. “But I have done this many times. Trust me to see you through the pain.”

When the medicine had dulled his senses, Annu worked with the sure movements her grandmother had taught her. The infected tooth fought her efforts, its roots deep and stubborn. Henrik gripped her arm so tightly she would wear his fingerprints as bruises for days. But she did not tense, did not hurry. Applying steady pressure, working in small increments, then finally in a subtle figure-eight motion, she knew not to rush the process. Her voice became the calmness he could follow through the pain.

“Almost finished, Henrik. You are braver than you know.”

When the tooth finally came free, Henrik sighed with relief. Annu packed the empty socket with yarrow and honey, then held a cold cloth to his cheek while the bleeding slowed. She helped him over to the small cot in the next room—a quiet corner for recovery. Covering him with a blanket, she offered him warm broth to drink, and placed a small bundle of herbs in a vase on the nightstand: lavender for peace, rosemary for remembrance, and a handful of wild violets just for beauty's sake.

Rest, now, Henrik. You’ll feel much better soon.

From Annu Olson’s Forest Codex:

Later, alone, I sit by my window and study my hands—these instruments that learned to hold another's suffering until it can be transformed into something like relief.

The ache in my being is not just weariness—it is the particular soreness that comes from absorbing someone else's fear, from letting their pain travel through my bones until it finds a place to rest and be transformed. This sacred wear is an erosion—my body an offering of service—each ache bears witness: my patient was afraid, and I held their fear until it could become something else.

Some days the weight of it nearly breaks me. Some days I want to run to the forest and never come back. My neck and back ache from craning to see into small dark spaces, my shoulders are in knots from the repetitive motion, my eyes strain from precise work that leaves them red and stinging by day's end.

But then morning comes, and someone knocks, and again I remember:

This work is love made visible. And, just like my grandmother, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.

---

III.

Elsa lay dying.

Her eldest son and daughter sent for Annu at dawn.

So Annu came carrying herbs of comfort and small beauties that could make her crossing easier: pussy willows, beeswax candles, a jar of jam made from last summer's wild strawberries, bread and a simple pot of soup to warm her children.

Elsa lay still, her breathing had become rapid and shallow. Her weathered hands rested quiet on the coverlet, and her face had taken on that particular translucence that came when the soul grew light, ready for departure. Though her eyes remained closed, there was a deep peace in her features, as if she walked already in some distant meadow beyond all pain.

Annu arranged the pussy willows in a jar beside her bed, their silver buds a reminder that even in ending, life prepared new beginnings. She lit the candles slowly, letting their honey-sweetness fill the room with a warm fragrance that went deeper than fire.

Through the morning hours, Elsa’s son and daughter told the story of their mother's life: her long marriage, seven grandchildren, her work in the kitchen garden that had fed their family through many lean winters.

Annu became repository for their catalog of memories, witness to the accounting every family makes at the end: what was given, what received, what still wanted to be said.

Eventually, the moment came, as a pause between breaths, when Elsa’s soul gathered itself for the great letting go. They all placed hands on this small body. She had been the doorway that had welcomed them here. Now it swung wide open, clearing the way, allowing her own journey back into the mysterious country from which she had come.

---

Only later, when the family has gathered to plan the burial, when my work is finished and I am no longer needed to be their steady light—only then—do I slip away to the woodshed behind the house, press my back against the rough timber and let my own tears come.

I weep for the weight of being witness to so much letting go, and for the way death makes me feel vividly, fiercely alive. My every sense sharpened to a blade: the scratch of wool against my skin, the sting of tears in the strong morning sun.

In the midst of life we are in death.

Love incarnates itself in flesh that fails.

Healing happens not in the curing but in the willingness to companion each other through this brief union of flesh and spirit.

-from Annu Olson’s Forest Codex

---

IV.

That evening, Annu walked back to the grove carrying warm bread and a jar of honey. She spread her grandmother's wool shawl at the base of Olli's massive trunk, arranging this simple feast as if for a lover—which, she realized, was exactly what it was.

The invitation still shimmered between them in the silence.

She broke the bread slowly, offering crumbs to the birds that sheltered in Olli's branches, savoring the way time moved here. Minutes stretched like seasons. Each mouthful of honey became an eternity of sweetness dissolving on her tongue.

The wind moved through Olli’s branches—his way of presence and listening.

Annu considered the villagers who depended on her healing touch, the herbs she gleaned and ground with care. Her grandmother's Forest Codex came to mind—only half-filled with healing recipes, waiting for new discoveries that might help future generations.

Henrik's grateful smile flashed in her memory, along with the way Maija's baby had gripped her finger with innocent trust. Most vividly, she remembered how Elsa's children had looked at her—with the relief of people who had not been left alone in their darkest hour.

But then her mind turned to eternal love, to growing beside Olli through centuries of sunlight and storms, to becoming part of the mysterious intelligence that powered the forest's cycles of death and renewal. She envisioned their roots intertwined so deeply that they became one organism, two trees sharing sky, sunlight, water—the very substances of life. To live in the peaceful shelter of each other would be an endless dream.

Time itself was the question:

Human-time with its brief, urgent seasons,

or Tree-time with its circular decades dreaming toward light—

which would she choose?

As darkness gathered, Annu lay back against Olli's trunk, watching stars appear between his leaves. Here, held by his ancient patience, she could feel her calling, love pouring itself out in the smallest gestures. Her life was not grand, but it was intentional, ceremonial, and tender. Each day she held eternity in the palm of her hand in some new way—a birthing, a healing touch, a moment of comfort offered to the grieving.

Can I bear to give this up? she wondered.

Can I trade the urgency of human love for the endless peace of the forest?

The wind stirred Olli's leaves, and in that rustling she heard his invitation:

Like the birdsong beginning inside the egg,

Like this universe coming in to existence,

The lover wakes, and whirls

in a dancing joy,

then kneels down

in praise.

-Rumi

To be continued.

---

The entire story will be published in one small chapter per week.

Part One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight

---

Dear One,

This part of my tale is informed by years of my own experiences, both as a mother who has given birth, and as a nurse who has accompanied her patients and their families in times of trial. To be given the trust of a patient is the greatest honor for me. It’s something I often feel unworthy of.

Throughout the various chapters of my life, in nursing and raising children, I have always found the beauty of human kindness to be a powerful healing force.

In this chapter, I also wanted to include a few lines about the physical toll endured by healthcare workers, and also gesture at the way I’ve watched my colleagues willingly sacrifice their own bodies in taking care of others. Chronic pain is a universal reality among everyone I know in my field. One recent study showed nearly 80% of dental professionals complain of neck and shoulder pain, and about 65% experience low back pain. Just something to keep in mind. Next time you’re in the chair, why not send some good thoughts to the person caring for you? It’s a nice distraction and may even make your visit feel less stressful when you understand something of the everyday devotion being shown to you. It is truly love in action.

So what will Annu choose? You’ll find out in the next chapter. And I’d really love to see you in the comments, if there’s anything you’d like to ask or share.

---

Photo One: Beech tree and circular woody vine, Johnston Mills Nature Preserve, Chapel Hill, NC.

Photo Two: Ripening berries, Brumley Forest Nature Preserve, Hillsborough, NC

Photo Three: Mushroom, Cedar Falls Park, Chapel Hill NC

Photo Four: Taken at my clinic one day years ago: I had just finished taking his x-rays and we were waiting for the doctor to come in, when my patient asked me what kind of camera he should buy to begin taking nature photos. “The one in your pocket now can be a lot of fun to begin with,” I said. “What? Really?” he asked. “Sure!” I said. “See that tiny moth on the window over there? Watch this.” The moth measured maybe about an inch across, barely noticeable. It looked like a drab little smudge on the glass. I took its picture then showed my patient how to play with the image in numerous ways using the built-in software on his phone. We had such a sweet moment. I still love this picture and the reminder of the happiness it brought us in the moment.

Photo Five: Raindrops on Oak leaves, Duke Forest, Durham, NC.