The hour after dawn was pure magic.
The light’s low angle bathed the land in glowing warmth. Long shadows, still aching with the night’s recent mysteries, stretched across the lawn.
At times like these the heart can’t resist fluttering. The mind itself also falters, stumbling in its obsessive rush to fill all spaces with noisy commentary. A silence miraculously descends. For a moment there is just the light, the shadows, and the glory of being alive.
Standing in the morning shadows of an old maple, its leaves back lit in gold from the morning sun, the thought occurred that this old tree was wise. Beside it I felt young and naive; its ancientness was overwhelming.
Could such a being be privy to lofty insights far beyond my understanding?
Then came the realization that in all the years since its birth, this tree had never once been distracted by minutiae. To the tree, life just was. It lived moment to moment, growing and flourishing in the fullness of its true essence.
What percentage of my life could claim such presence, such contentment? And knowing the percentage must be abysmally small, I wondered at the decades I’d wasted in silly distractions and mindless prattle.
The tree will stand for many more years, growing ever deeper into wholeness and spirit. You and I, however, will most likely continue our pointless little wars with ourselves, resisting what is and losing decades of our lives in fruitless internal turmoil.
It was a comfort to rest my palm against the trunk’s rough bark. Constant, tranquil, and in its own way, all knowing.
Obviously trees have cornered the market on wisdom.