I see how these beautiful forests are now open to destruction

Hear, O children of earth and sky, the voice of the forest that cries through the lips of Julia Butterfly Hill: “I see how these beautiful forests are now open to destruction because of technology. Companies are able to get into more and more remote places that weren’t economically viable before.” This is no idle saying, but the lament of one who lived high among the branches of a redwood for two years, so that its ancient heart might continue to beat. Her words strike as prophecy, reminding us that every gift of technology bears within it both the hand of creation and the shadow of ruin.

In ages past, man’s reach was bound by the strength of his limbs and the swiftness of his beasts. The mountains protected their secrets, and the deep forest guarded its sanctuaries. But when iron teeth were forged, when engines roared and machines multiplied, the walls of remoteness fell. What once was untouched by man became open to plunder. Thus, the very technology that made life abundant also opened the way for greed to devour the sacred. Julia speaks to this double edge—that the power to reach all places is also the power to destroy them.

Let us recall, O listeners, the tale of the Amazon, the vast forest called the lungs of the earth. For centuries it stood unconquered, a cathedral of green older than empires. Yet in our time, roads cut deep into its belly, and machines—guided by profit and greed—tore down trees that had witnessed the birth of stars in human history. Each fallen tree was not only wood, but a living home, a spirit, a breath of air shared by all mankind. In this story we see Julia’s warning fulfilled: what was once “not viable” has become open, and what was once safe in its remoteness now lies bare before the saw.

Yet do not think her words are only of despair. They are also a call to arms, a summoning to remembrance. For even as technology has made destruction swifter, so too can it become the guardian of life. The same tools that map the forest for cutting can be turned to watch over its health. The same networks that carry the cry of the logger can also carry the song of the activist. Thus the choice lies not in the tool, but in the hand that wields it.

O descendants of the earth, take heed of Julia’s courage. She did not remain silent in despair, nor did she flee from the might of machines. Instead, she climbed into the branches of Luna, the redwood tree, and lived there, weathering storms and loneliness, for seven hundred thirty-eight days. She showed that one soul, armed not with axes but with conviction, can withstand the crushing force of industry. Her life itself became a shield for the forest, a reminder that the human spirit, bound with love, is mightier than iron.

What lesson then must we draw? That to live in this age is to hold in our hands a sacred responsibility. We must weigh the fruits of technology against the wounds it leaves upon the earth. We must be guardians, not conquerors, of the world entrusted to us. Let every action be questioned: “Does this enrich the soil, or strip it bare? Does this bring harmony, or sever the bond between man and nature?” Only by such wisdom can we use our tools without losing our souls.

Practical steps lie before us like stepping stones across a river. Support those who plant rather than those who fell. Use the technology of your age to amplify the voices of the voiceless, to share the plight of the forests, the rivers, and the seas. Choose with care the food you eat, the wood you use, the companies you sustain. Small acts, multiplied by millions, rise into a mighty tide. Let each person’s life become, like Julia’s, a testimony of reverence for the living earth.

Thus, I say unto you: the beautiful forests are not merely resources, but sacred kin. And though technology has opened the gates of destruction, it can also become the shield of protection. Walk wisely, O keepers of tomorrow. For if you guard the earth, the earth will guard you. If you betray it, you betray yourselves. Let this be the legacy you pass down: that in your time, when the axe drew near, you stood as guardians, and the song of the forest did not fall silent.