Only the dark shape
reaches up to the clouds
Rain moisture looms
as if sweat shone on the venerable trunk
But there is no sweating, no fear,
no worries, no musing:
He just stands there, as he has
since he was born.
His neighbor reaches into his crown.
But does he mind? Want the branches to be sawn off?
So that he himself can get more light,
grow better, more fruit and more strength?
He invites me to look and feel:
The other tree shields him from the storm.
Hitting the other with full force,
but him only mildly. Thanks to his neighbor.
Is he freezing in the cold? No.
Yes, he can feel it, sense it.
Feeling, being, rooted
in the earth that nourishes and supports him.
No worries, no thinking about tomorrow.
No plans, no dreams, no wishes.
He invites me to be a tree.
We stand together and I can feel
what it's like to be connected in that place
that is my cradle, my space
for a lifetime, growth without striving.
Growth that is cyclical,
complemented by retreat, contemplation.
Growth that gives more
than it takes, just being, not intending.
Just being and sensing, feeling.
No longing. Nothing that drives him away.
No fear, although pain
he knows, from others and himself.
From trees, animals, people.
He has experienced it and he does not forget.
Just as he knows joy,
The joy of others, not just his own.
The quiet joy of being. Just being.
I feel it. I feel him.
Silence broken by a child's laughter.
I say goodbye and leave.
He stays and stands in silence.
He doesn't wait, not for me,
not for spring. Not for anything.
He just is. Welcome. Being.
Peaceful mind.