This Old Tree

After contemplating out loud the state of our world; the cumbersome and repetitive nature of our existence; our willingness to jump to conclusions; condemn some to a life of servitude, subjugation, and exile who years later would be recognised as the visionaries they were, while others are held high as visionaries in their time who years, sometimes moments later will be recognised as tyrants, oppressors, fools or simply incorrect; our inability to, or unwillingness to, see beyond our immediate future and contemplate the ramifications of today’s yesterday’s and tomorrow’s actions; our hesitation to stop, breathe and think; my dearest friend asked me, “So what positivity of the world may I reflect upon in my sleep?”

I stopped for a moment. Here was my chance to break the cycle. Breathe. Think.

I thought of all the lovely things. Smiles from beautiful strangers. The laugh of a child not yet learned to speak. The dust particles that float through a sun ray at that time of the afternoon. These things are nice, but are fleeting. They light you for only a moment then are gone and can even leave you with a feeling of emptiness upon their departure. Think and breathe.

“An old tree.” I said. “The old tree. You know the one. The one with the beautiful gnarled roots that have made their way over rocks, and a thousand other obstacles. The old tree by the cold, slow moving stream. The one that has experienced great floods, the ones where it thought it would drown, save for a clump of leaves at it’s very top hanging on in hope that the water would pass. The same tree that has experienced droughts many old men attempt to recall, that forced it’s roots ever deeper to find the wells beneath. The tree that has seen young ones affix a rope and swing for hours from it’s branches…

“This tree. This old tree… Will this do?”

She was asleep. With a smile.



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