"Praise and blame, gain and loss,
pleasure and sorrow come and go like the wind.
To be happy,
rest like a giant tree, in the midst of them all."
Above you can see an amazingly majestic tree that sits outside our lake place. I have sat many times out on the patio in the mornings with a hot cup of coffee admiring this tree and meditating on its greatness.
I have been adopting trees for much of my life.
Here's what I know about trees:
- they bend with the wind; they do not resist.
- they rejoice in the rain, and feel nourished by the elements.
- there is enough sun for all trees; they do not need to compete for the sun . . . abundance is everywhere.
- they continually reach and grow.
- their tops waver with the crazy wind, and as they are flexible, they are alive; when they are no longer flexible, they break, wither, and die.
- this cycle is all natural; it's the plan for trees.
- there are many different species of trees, and they do not argue about the superiority of one tree to another; they coexist.
- trees are super amazingly strong.
I grew up with trees. Trees framed my existence. I saw their waving, shiny leaves like hands clapping for me as a young women . . . and later in life, as well.
As a child, I looked to trees in the night, to their shadows to bring me both comfort and terror.
Many trees, we know, have deep and lasting roots. And those that do not, are at the whim of the wind and the elements. They are uprooted and then they die. And it's okay. It's a letting go. And, that's as it should be.
But we do not need to attach sadness or loss here; it is as it should be. It is all perfect.
I want to have deep, lasting roots--roots that keep me present and strong with myself, and with the people I love.
I want to embrace the being of tree . . . large, majestic, and strong---but also beautiful, fancy, and fluttering.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
All is well . . .