There is a tree in the garden. It is the perfect expression of itself. It is unique, unmatchable, exceptional. The tree has no need to be anything else.
There is a woman in the house. She is the perfect expression of herself. She is unique, unmatchable, exceptional. She compares herself to others. She blames and critiques herself. She believes she should be different.
There is a tree in the garden. Sometimes, its roots encounter stone. Sometimes its branches encounter brick wall. The roots gracefully skirt the stone, moving toward the nourishing soil. The branches easily move around the wall, moving into space and air. The stone and the wall are the tree. Part of life, part of growth.
There is a man in the house. Sometimes he meets an obstacle. It looks like the obstacle says something about him, his worth or capability. He wishes the obstacle was not there. The obstacle is exhausting.
There is a tree in the garden. Its leaves and flowers reach towards the light, expand into the air, always towards the unknown. Constantly, unstoppably moving and changing in whatever direction life requires. No guarantees of anything. No future. No past comparison.
There is a woman in the house. There is a pulsing, vibrant urge within her for life. A sensuous, almost uncontainable pull towards what she loves, towards creation, expansion and action, curiosity and marvel. She wonders whether she deserves it. Will it last? Will it make her secure? Will she get it wrong? What will people say? She resists and holds back.
There is a tree in the garden. There is no place where the tree ends and the garden and the rest of the world begin. The tree is all of it. Everything.
There is a man in the house. There is no place where the man ends and the house and the rest of the world begin. The man is all of it. Everything. He doesn’t remember this. He feels separate and small. He feels alone.
There is a tree in the garden. It could not be more perfect.
There are a man and a woman in the house. They could not be more perfect. Life could not be more perfect.
Sometimes, they don’t see it. And that is perfect too.
tree (part 2)
Let’s look again at the tree in the garden.
How did it become this perfect expression of life?
How did branches grow towards the sunlight. How did roots grow deep into the earth?
How did it have all the air, sunshine, nutrients and water it has ever needed?
How did it know to flower in spring and release its leaves this month?
We look at the tree and we know it became the perfect expression of life because it couldn’t do anything else. It reached for light and nourishment because it could not stop itself. We look at it and we know the effortlessness of its growth. We look at it and see the surging life force that sends the most fragile stems through concrete paving.
We see the tree and we see life happening. Growth happening. Reaching happening. Flowering happing. Releasing happening.
We see the irrelevance to its growth of an individual will and identity, of confidence or self-esteem, of intention or purpose, or of blame and credit. This tree provides for infinite other life forms yet has no responsibility or burden. We see the creation of absolute perfection from unknown knowing.
And now let’s look again at the man and the woman in the house.
They believe they are who they are because of something they have done. They believe they need to know the timing and make it happen. They believe the future is on their shoulders. They believe it is up to them to find what they need.
But how can that be true?
The man and the woman are no different from the tree. They are the perfect expression of themselves, a creation of life. They are life breathing itself. Nourishing itself. Walking itself. Bending itself. Expanding itself.
They forget that they are not a man and a woman in the same way that a tree has never had a notion of tree.
They forget that all they are is life living itself.
There is nothing they can do about it.
No man. No woman.