The silencing of the rainforests is a double deforestation, not

“The silencing of the rainforests is a double deforestation, not only of trees but a deforestation of the mind’s music, medicine and knowledge.” Thus spoke Jay Griffiths, a writer whose words breathe the fierce spirit of the earth and echo the lament of vanishing wilderness. Her voice, both poetic and prophetic, calls us to recognize that when the rainforests fall, it is not only the green canopy that dies — it is the living memory of the world that is erased. In this quote, Griffiths reminds us that the destruction of nature is not a wound upon the land alone; it is a wound upon the human soul, for within the forests lies the forgotten library of creation, the ancient wisdom that once guided both beast and man.

In the first deforestation, the trees fall — mighty giants felled for timber, for profit, for the hunger of a civilization that consumes more than it understands. The song of the birds vanishes, the air grows silent where once the chorus of insects and rivers sang. But Griffiths speaks of a second, deeper deforestation — one that takes place within the mind and spirit of humankind. When we destroy the forest, we destroy also the stories, the medicines, the knowledge that have lived within it for millennia. The shamans, healers, and tribes who have listened to the whisper of the leaves and the murmur of the streams carry within them wisdom no machine can replicate. To silence the rainforest, then, is to silence the teachers of the earth itself.

For the rainforest is more than wood and water — it is the temple of biodiversity, the cradle of countless species, each one a verse in the eternal song of life. When it is lost, that music — the “mind’s music” that Griffiths speaks of — fades from the world. Scientists estimate that with each acre burned, we lose potential cures for diseases, unknown compounds that could heal the sick or extend life. The medicine of the rainforest is not only chemical; it is spiritual. Its fragrance, its silence, its mystery have long been a salve for the human condition. The tribes who live beneath its canopy do not see it as resource but as kin — and in their reverence lies the wisdom we have forgotten.

Consider the story of the Amazon tribes, whose lives are intertwined with the trees. Among them, the Asháninka people speak of the forest as “the mother of breath.” From it, they draw healing plants and sacred songs. When outsiders come with chainsaws and flames, it is not merely their home that is destroyed, but their cosmology — the universe of meaning by which they live. In the 1980s, when vast swaths of the Amazon were burned for cattle and crops, an Asháninka elder cried, “When you burn the forest, you burn our memory.” His words mirror Griffiths’ — for in burning the trees, mankind burns also its connection to wisdom, its music of understanding.

The double deforestation, then, is not only ecological but existential. The forests once taught humanity humility — that we are part of a larger web, not its master. But as the canopy disappears, so too does this awareness. The modern world, deafened by machinery and blinded by screens, forgets how to listen to the living world. The silence that follows deforestation is not the quiet of peace, but the quiet of absence — the hush of a planet losing its voice. And when nature is silenced, so too is the poetry of the human mind, for we are shaped by the landscapes we inhabit.

Yet Griffiths’ words are not merely a dirge; they are a summons. They call us to remember that the fate of the forest and the fate of the soul are one and the same. To heal the rainforest is to heal ourselves — to restore the music of life to both the world and the heart. The wisdom we seek in laboratories and libraries already hums in the veins of trees and the wings of butterflies. To listen again, we must approach nature not as conquerors but as students. We must plant, protect, and above all, revere.

Therefore, let this truth be carried like a sacred torch: that every tree felled is a verse erased from the poem of existence, every species lost a note silenced in the song of creation. If we wish to preserve knowledge, we must preserve the living library from which it springs. Let the forests stand — not only for their oxygen, but for their meaning. And let us, as Griffiths urges, reawaken our minds to the music of the natural world. For when we learn again to hear the song of the rainforest, we shall rediscover the symphony within ourselves — the harmony of life, ancient, eternal, and whole.