I have decided to become a tree. From this day on I will not yearn, but will take my water and sun as they are given. I will live in unbroken communion with my sacred soil, holding fast to my roots. I will stand tall and constant according to my nature, no matter worldly regard for me. I will bow in the wind and be an open heart for what comes to rest or nest in me.
I will not fight the seasons, but drop my leaves in their due time and grow silent when winter bid me rest. I will acquire age in annual rings that display my gaining texture, and I will not shame. I will shade the weary and hold up the weak. I will host an audience of cicada and let them speak. I will not waver before mass opinion nor question my peculiar bloom. Self-consciousness will not know me, for I will be plunged in the pristine currents of being, and will bear no doubt within.
I will not fear. I will be hostage to true Love. I will birth faithful fruit from the bright womb of sanctuary. My wounds will heal into gnarly knots of morph and revelation. Sky will bless my nakedness with the elements that it chooses, and I will seek no shelter. I will not forget my ancestors, assault my neighbors, or offer an offending tongue. I will whistle inside the gusts, laugh by way of the children, and roam richly in the storm. I will cry my sap freely and wear my bark with tenderness. When young Love carves its dreams into my helpless side, I will abide.
I will grow wherever my seed is sprung and let my story beautify me. I will unsheathe my fragrance and release my saplings to their own rendition, my branches never getting in the way. I will not begrudge the saws and axes, nor gnaw against myself when the spiteful ones come to spite me. I will disappear into Love and not be touched.
I will carry my foliage modestly and endure the pride of creatures. In all the noise and noxious grinding, I will remain silent and smiling, my cadence steady and yet not saddled, any harness unthreaded, I will not be addled. I will be Peace. I will be Love. I will be in the chaos, still, and by the moment, as others trade their souls for carnival attractions, I will be still, a tree.
Epiphany: It occurs to me that I have always been a tree. No becoming is necessary, except the dropping of my mental leaves.
Jaiya John
Fresh Peace: Daily Blossoming of the Soul
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