A Story Of A Tree

In the middle of a dense forest there was a clearing. In the center of that meadow, truly the center weather stepped off or measured by laser, stood a tree. To the untrained eye it wasn’t especially unique other than it stood by itself, separate from the other trees. It’s leaves were a brilliant green, much like the other trees leaves were in spring. And as the wind blew leaves flew around that tree just as the other trees did during a breezy day. If one were to visit that meadow more than once in a year, one would notice that this trees leaves never changed. As the leaves in the forest turned red or yellow and finally a brown that is nearly black this tree’s leaves remained a radiant green. The leaves in the forest would gradually lose energy, separate from their branches and fall gracefully to the earth from which they sprang, molt and die. After many visits one might begin to notice that the brilliant green leaves of the tree in the middle of the meadow never quite fell to the ground, rather circling the tree in a delicate dance. In fact one might notice that as the tree grew leaves didn’t spring from its branches, rather the leaves circling the tree would, one by one, reattach themselves to the tree. Suddenly this tree would seem not only unique, but remarkable. And if one made one’s life a pilgrimage to that tree, one might begin to notice that they themselves are a leaf, circling that tree. And in this awareness one might begin to gradually stop studying the tree and start to enjoy the feeling of fluttering in the wind, the worries of the world that one brought to this meadow in a dense forest would fade away. If one looked around as one fluttered, one would feel lost as the forest through which they tromped is no longer there. And in that moment they might begin to feel very small, yet more important than ever. Even vital. If they leaned into the fluttering and made it their sole purpose, they might begin to notice that they aren’t fluttering at all, but ascending toward that newest branch. And they might even notice the other leaves fluttering beside them, also ascending. They would begin to notice the size and scope of the tree, seeming to have no beginning or end. The tree would feel both surprising and familiar in the same breath. Your fluttering would become your purpose, worrying not at all about the ascent or descent as you would know from where you came and where you are going. And in this knowledge, you would know who you are. You would know that you are not important, your life away from the tree is limited and your destination is simply back from where you were separated. This is the story of tree. The story of you. And the story of me.

The Cold Gray Dark Of Dawn

In the cold gray light of the pre-dawn hour, I awoke from a dream.  Griffin was a toddler in body but a man in spirit.  I was holding him by his arms and he was moving his legs to convince the doctor that he could walk if only he could will his unwilling limbs.  He was pleading that his will was strong enough and with the doctor’s trust in his will it would be so.

I waited in bed, half asleep, recalling a dream as it unfolded.  I tried to will myself back to that place where I held my child by his hands as he walked as a man while still a boy.  Back to a place that was real, but never existed.  A place where I was giving him that which he never received.  But it was gone.  So my eyes finally opened and I was back to my reality.  I wept quietly, somewhat embarrassed.  That cold gray light, where colors are absorbed into nothing, and everything, is where I awoke.  And where I live.

There are moments like a dream, where the world unfolds in all its shades and shapes and I am fully alive.  And so is he.  I grasp at those moments like Jacob grasped at God in the tent, trying to wrestle that glimpse of paradise into submission so it won’t ever go away.  But it does, as it always will until the day we are truly named.  

And there is no blessing from God like Jacob received, simply the blessing of knowing that wrestling with God is the journey and the path to receiving our true name.  And also the blessing of knowing that what we see as light and color and fulness today, the now and the present is only the cold gray light of the pre-dawn hour before heaven and earth become one.  There our dreams open our eyes and we see what is and was always real.  That our fulness comes not from our conquests and our triumphs, but rather from our wounds.  Wounds that are, to paraphrase Leonard Cohen, the cracks that let's the light in.;