You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a

Hear now the gentle wisdom of Hal Borland, who clothed truth in the simple garments of the earth: “You can’t be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion, or challenge the ideology of a violet.” In these words lies a lesson older than cities and empires, for he reminds us that the creations of nature are pure, innocent of the strife and suspicion that plague the hearts of men. A tree seeks only the sun, a bird only the sky, a violet only to bloom. They neither conspire nor deceive, for their law is the law of being, not the schemes of ambition.

This saying teaches us that in the presence of nature, suspicion fades and fear is silenced. A man may mistrust his neighbor, kings may conspire against kings, nations may accuse nations—but who shall put a tree on trial? Who shall declare a flower guilty of treason? The world of human conflict is filled with suspicion, accusation, and division, but the world of earth and sky, of wind and root, remains untainted. To dwell among the trees and rivers is to remember a life unburdened by suspicion, a life where things simply are as they were made to be.

Consider the example of Henry David Thoreau, who withdrew to the shores of Walden Pond. Tired of the clamor of human suspicion and the weight of society’s demands, he sought refuge in the simplicity of the forest. There, among trees, birds, and violets, he found not subversion nor deceit, but truth. His days of silence and observation brought him wisdom, teaching that to live in harmony with nature is to rediscover the innocence that mankind often loses. He wrote of the freedom he felt, for the woods made no demands upon him but to see, to listen, and to be.

History too shows us the folly of forgetting this truth. In the ages of tyranny and suspicion, when men spied upon their neighbors and accusations destroyed the innocent, nature still bore silent witness. In the darkest years of oppression—whether in the gulags of Siberia or in the camps of war—the prisoner who lifted his eyes to see a bird in flight or a flower pushing through the soil felt, if only for a moment, that freedom yet existed. The bird and the violet cared nothing for ideology; they remained eternal symbols that life itself could not be imprisoned.

The teaching of Borland is therefore a rebuke to the restless heart of mankind. He shows us that suspicion and accusation are diseases of human pride, not the way of the earth. The tree grows, the squirrel gathers, the violet blooms, and in their innocence lies a wisdom more enduring than the politics of empires. To live closer to nature is to cleanse the soul of needless suspicion, to remember that life’s highest calling is not to accuse, but to grow, to sing, to flourish.

O children of tomorrow, take this lesson into your daily life: when suspicion stirs in your heart, step among the trees. When envy gnaws at you, listen to the birds. When the world fills with anger and accusation, kneel before a violet. Let their innocence remind you of the path you are meant to walk. For suspicion corrodes, but trust and simplicity renew the soul.

Therefore, the practical wisdom is this: spend time often in nature, for it purifies the heart. Seek the quiet companionship of woods, rivers, and meadows, for there suspicion cannot breathe. And learn to live as they live: to fulfill your nature without envy, to pursue your calling without malice, to stand in truth as the oak stands in sunlight.

Thus Hal Borland’s words endure: “You can’t be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion, or challenge the ideology of a violet.” Go then, and be as they are—innocent, steadfast, and free.