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 headlong rush to fill all spaces with noisy commentary. A silence miraculously descends, and 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 by the morning sun, the thought arose that this old tree was wise. In fact, its ancientness was overwhelming, and besides it I felt young and naïve.
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, constantly growing into 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.