The ego is as the rings of the tree. Days pass; months go by; years and decades and centuries. All the growth, the great walls, flourish around it, in accordance with the nature of the times, the conditions, the waters and the sun. The ego immerses itself in it, as a reflection, into its being, a story that it becomes. It only changes as the ages change, some strange event that occurs, the end of some co-dependent life, a disaster of tremendous proportions. It dies and is born in again, in the form of another tree, or in the form of yet another ring, another character, another story.

Some trees have been hardened by centuries. Massive structures that strike awe and force into the eye that witnesses them. These are burdened too with a great sadness, of wisdom hidden inside the temple, the deep interior of the tree, of which only priestesses and priests can divine, those who can read the rings without seeing and hear the songs without hearing. So many years can become too great too bear, too hard to hold. It is then when the spirit of tree is ready to collapse, when it is time for dark night of its spirit.

For even beyond the purposes of the tree itself, each layer of the tree gives life to other animals and plants and insects, and microorganisms.  Even gods and fairies dwell there, and children. If only we could hear all the stories, the pages that the trees hold, each ring, each lifetime. If only the tree could call our attention to itself! But trees do not speak in English or in French or Spanish. They speak in a code of the light, patterns and symmetries, clues, and mysteries. Those who pretend to know all about these trees, their place and their purpose, their diseases and their health, dishonor those precious sacred songs of the trees.

The tree then calls to its Creator, its only hope, to find relief and respite from eternal life in a world that cannot survive eternity. The tree is suffocating from the strength of the rings around it, each story and timeline, years of memories that clung to it as only identity can cling. Where the tree experiences pain and discomfort in itself is exactly where it is time to awaken from the dreams that surrounded it. It is time, not for resistance, but for love.

It is here when the tree is granted a vision of the meaning of the rings, that they are not who the tree really is. This vision is the beginning of the rebirth, or the moment where the tree will prepare for the end of its being a tree, of being a ring of a tree, of a tree of rings, and become what he really is. And to do this, he must learn to read the language of the rings. He must understand how to unravel all the secrets and mysteries of each ring, all rings, all purposes. Once these signs and symbols are read, they turn back into dust, into the earth, never to be sung again.

And as the tree continues to read the rings, and let them go, the rings begin to seem less as stories and moments, and more as the raindrops fall, sporadically and then hard, only to dissolve into the earth once again. In that process, light will seemingly random catch this drop or the next, creating the appearance of importance or emphasis to the untrained eye. But what the ant sees is what is important to the ant, and what the dog sees is important to dog.  What you see is important to you, here and now, in this time and in this place. But as the rain lets up, so does the importance. All importance ends soon in dissolution. The tree can finally feel joy, much like the joy of its original sprouting, when it could feel the wind and the tender branches of its leaves without the need for rings or the stories of the rings.

I am writing this metaphor as a hint, as a suggestion that what you think about yourself and what others tell you, no matter how much “expertise” they or society claims they have, the truth is that no one knows who you are. They cannot tell you the symbolic meaning of your dreams, your experiences, those moments that strike you. Others cannot sing you your soul song, or tell you what your life will be, or who you will be with, unless you let them, unless you let them create more and more rings around you, and thus creating more of what is not you at all. Only you hold the key to the wisdom of centuries around you. Only you can be the priestess or priest of who you are.

You are not meant to suffer in the ego, but you are meant to learn from the trees. Why do you hold onto raindrops and fractals of light, to images of hope and despair, as if they were some bit of eternity, some kind of eternal ship that will never sink?  

This is the folly of humanity, whether absorbed and attached to egoic layers, or cursing them. Categorizing, classifying, pointing at other trees in disdain or mockery, hatred and worship, projecting and pointing, controlling and dominating.

Yet, this folly too is just another story for the ages, hidden in the hearts of every tree somewhere and sometime, soon ready to come to its closure.

Blessings XO

1 Comment »

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s