"But, look: the place he went to when he died bears absolutely no resemblance to the little wooden church of his youth, and the smells are not the smells of his Christianity, which were dry and clean like Palestinian roads through rocky landscapes, scented with cheap altar wine, floor polish, and the thin, almost ascetic, odour of his mother's perfume. It did not fit. It did not fit. It did not fit anything at all, except perhaps some stories he has since forgotten, but still retains, so one day he will remember them, even though they never appeared to him to have any religious intent.
Here, there, a fragment dredged up from some dark corner of his memory: Vance Joy pretending to be a Hopi Indian.
'You may need a tree for something--firewood, or a house. You offer four sacred stones. You pray, saying: "You have grown large and powerful. I have to cut you. I know you have knowledge in you from what happens around you. I am sorry, but I need your strength and power. I will give you these stones, but I must cut you down. These stones and my thoughts will be sure that another tree will take your place."
'The trees and the brush will talk back to you, when you talk to them. They can tell you what's coming or what came by, if you can read them.'"
Bliss, Peter Carey