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From appearances this tree is lifeless, not to be mistaken for dead though. It sits alone in the cracked, dry bed of the desert. Far away from its nearest neighbor, a sullen wiry bush, about 700 years it’s junior. Upon closer observation, much closer, anyone who dares find themselves in this desolation, can unearth tiny signs of life, which in turn reveal a subtle yet integral and inherent growth. This observer wonders why this tree which is in its “deathbed” is clinging to life as opposed to surrendering to the clearly inevitable. The tree’s grey, solid, dry limbs and trunk find a way to shine in the sunlight- a more silvery glow that is just screaming of evaporated existence. To the touch, the limbs are smooth, almost soft and the hollow reverb that follows a thump exemplifies death’s silence. And still, even with all the obvious signs of the passing of this tree, sprouting up from around the
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belly of one of its limbs, a tiny branch carrying the most delicate of flowers emerges. The observer now questions what she is doing here; what was her purpose for finding this tree? The tree seems to have all it needs when its time to cease arrives. The soul will escape quietly as all the other souls do and continue its journey to merge with the infinite. There is nothing the “dead” tree lacks for his final journey. It has lived its long life gathering and shedding, preparing, accepting and denying, cultivating and cleansing. It stands beautiful and complete, strong with the essence of its journey; it doesn’t even carry an ounce of impatience in regard to the millions of moments it has spent waiting to die alone. The idea of dying has been transformed over the years into a celebration similar to a birth, a celebration the soul longs for, as a child longs for Christmas. On the way down from the clouds this observer meets the tree in the form of a raindrop. The observer, our raindrop, is unaware of her form and only carries the consciousness to meet and greet the tree- to love it, to give all of herself to it, putting aside her own curiosity as to its desire to continue to exist. So, on this initial visit to the tree she does as any loving raindrop would and surrenders herself completely to provide nourishment for the tree and its “growth”. As you can imagine on this very hot day, this desert tree is elated to have met the raindrop. Her arrival is not only an immediate personal blessing, but it also signifies that this extremely long dry spell has been snapped by the monsoon season. The tree’s happiness and gratitude are so
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overwhelming that his solitary flower has no choice but to express itself in bloom. As the rain clouds glide off to shower his neighbors, a new flower begins to grow, unbeknownst to the tree, it will be his last. The tree sees his new flower as if it was not only his last flower, but his first flower. He welcomes the growth through the discomfort that sometimes accompanies such a change and sends a piece of the raindrop that way. And so he watches the metamorphosis, which to him in his old age seems to take only a few seconds, of the spawning of the branch and the budding of the flower. The branch is very thin and short and an almost neon green, so contrasting to his lackluster trunk and with the growth he senses a very distinct unveiling occurring within him. His attention is split between these sensations and a myriad of reflection that the surface of the remainder of the raindrop is projecting back to him. He moves his focus to the physical for the moment. The feeling flowing through the hollow tunnels of the tree begins simultaneously with the sprouting of the branch. It begins as an urgent, uncontainable energy bouncing around like an electron in a cell as it too tries to break out of its surroundings. The tree, in its wisdom, immediately embraces this sensation, acknowledging it and allowing it to be all that it is. With the nurturing provided in that moment by the tree, the energy assembles itself into a benevolent, organized power protected
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and directed by a sheath of pure love which easily enables the sprouting of the branch. And now it is only by way of nearly 8 centuries, the millions of moments that preceded this one second and the glorious pink petals of his final flower that his life purpose is realized. The tree can feel only bliss and love and peace as he smiles down on the quintessential bloom. His reflections still illuminating from within the raindrop come unsolicited and last for some time. Every memory from when he himself first broke ground, to each storm that weathered him, followed by each unique sound that ever broke the deafening silence that the desert can hold, as well as every creature that tickled his skin, and even the countless deaths that he witnessed, to this very raindrop that kissed him moments earlier; all of the scenes ran right through his soul and each of them carried with them the truth and mysticism of bliss and unity and knowingness. Then as his focus was drawn back to his flower he saw God beaming from each of the petals, therefore he saw God in himself; he was in fact perpetually reflecting God right back to himself, just like the opposing mirrors in a fun house do. There was no question from this moment forth about his own essence or its source. The illusion of separation had disintegrated. All that he had ever loved was now revealed to be all that he is. The beauty of this did not need to be digested; it was instantly identified as true. But a certain amount of
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letting go was necessary if the tree were to be fully engulfed by this truth, as opposed to the mere image of the reflection. If we take our raindrop for example; it only took the few seconds that she revealed herself to him for the tree to become completely enamored with her. The tree would have sacrificed all things in exchange for her presence. Instead he has been graced with the humility that allows him to experience the futility of his conceptualization surrounding individuality. The tree forfeits the idea that he and she are separate entities. He is no longer capable of giving anything of himself to anything or anyone else because all that he has is all that she has, is all that they have- there is no way to give something to someone who is already holding it. This realization gives way to the 14 pink petals- the 14 pink petals that are born from a moment that can not be replicated, the moment that could not possibly hold more perfection. Should this perfect flower’s alluring aroma be bottled, the label would read “Divinity in the Mirror”. The tree was satiated with love and surrounded by the sweet, serene smell of the flower, in want of absolutely nothing. So the tree began to rest in its blissful state. A breeze broke free in the stale, hot air of the desert which dispersed the delightful aroma in every direction. All of the other of God’s beings in the vicinity were ironically awakened by the traveling scent. Each of them perking up, widening their eyes and feverishly inhaling, sniffing- trying to find the
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source. But not the tree; it fell deeper and deeper into slumber, easily surrendering to the peace and quiet while, on the other hand, the heavens and angels and even the gods and goddesses pined for more of this flower’s nectar. Their impatience and longing pooled together the components for a great desert storm. The lightening and thunder started to rumble and crack while the clouds vacuumed all the lingering droplets for miles and miles as they searched out the scent and of course the winds whistled and howled, growing stronger by the minute. The tree simply fell deeper into sleep. The flower still held a piece, probably the last piece, of the tree’s consciousness in its stem with anticipation for the approaching storm. In all of its precariousness it began to collapse its precious bloom but not before the whirling wind caught a whiff of the aroma. The wind immediately quieted and stilled itself frozen in bewilderment. The sweet scent carried an unmatched familiarity that was just out of reach for the wind. The silence grew as the wind, still unable to move, searched deep inside of her for a clue to this mystery. The deeper she went, the closer she came to the answer; it was presenting itself just as the world does when you open your eyes from a heavy nap. Angry and impatient with the wind’s inconsideration for the rest of the storm’s momentum, the thunder grumbled in his loudest, scariest voice urging the wind to proceed with their mission. The thunder’s clamor chased away the final layer of haze for the wind and she too
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was blessed with “Divinity in the Mirror”. Her whirling began; she found her strength and speed as she pulled herself towards her own scent, picking up dust and pebbles and anything else that she found along the way. She moved in and out of crevices in the rock formations, twisted around the cactus arm’s held high in the air, even toyed with the birds as they tried to escape her excited energy. The wind had recognized herself in the flower’s scent; a knowingness of her “yesterday” spent as a raindrop feeding the flower overcame her. Now she must dance around that flower, blow in and out of the petals and tumble endlessly in its nectar. She could not stop if she had to, not until she came face to face with utopia. Like the tree, she was viewing the etchings of her soul; the unity and loving connection of all that is. And so she fervently blew the entire storm to the tree- the apparently dead tree. The final flower had by now closed up its petals and shriveled into a fetal position as it braced for the storm. The lightning lit up the dark desert sky creating quite a panoramic vista in every direction as well as supplying the wind with just enough light for her dance. The thunder let his bliss free and the oversized raindrops falling to the ground came together to create the background music of Desert Storm. The wind was very pleased. Her perfect moment of reflection had arrived. She gained all the understanding she desired as she tunneled through the hollow trunk. The howling and whistling created by the friction from her scurrying through the very old, wise grooves in his trunk told his story like the
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needle on a record brings music to our ears. It was spoken in her language and her heart expanded as she listened: “Oh thank you to the lovely raindrop and its source for allowing the experience of unconditional, pure love. I have loved many days and nights, each lover bringing me closer and closer to this gift you have given me, but it was not until your arrival that I was capable of the totality of love. There were parts of myself, powerful and forceful as well, that I had never seen before. It was only after you were able to show them to me with your beautiful, reflective skin that I could embrace myself entirely. It was in my self realization that I found God realization and all realization for all there is or ever was. You fed me at every level at your own sacrifice my angel raindrop and with His grace you find yourself here, ready to receive and release. I am blessed and grateful to share these moments with you. So my love, I submit to you in this valley of darkness and neither of us will feel fear as we merge together and continue our journey home.” Upon hearing the tree’s words the wind continued to expand and being that she was still twirling around in the tree, the tree uprooted completely from the earth that had grounded him for an eternity. The tree and the wind tumbled around in mid air for a short time, whirling, whistling and glowing. It was ultimately a strike of lightning that liberated our lovers from their shells. We can assume that lightning being lightning could not resist the mesmeric energy field that was generated by the two souls deepening into the “One-ness”, and we
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can also be sure that our lightning was overdosed with “Divinity in the Mirror� while performing his role in this illustration of love.