FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2009
Light struggles to make its way through the canopy of trees which rise up, tall as towers, to the half glimpsed sky. Their trunks stand ramrod straight, as if they were all cast from the same mould. But they stand in no discernable pattern as if He who cast them did not bother to line them up.
The forest is thick with trees, as far as the eye can see in all directions, trees growing, silently living, quietly awake, waiting for something to happen; or not waiting at all. Simply existing in the microcosm of their individual universes. Their leaves are black where they are cast in shadow and shine green where they capture the golden light of the sun. Countless numbers of black & golden green, shifting in the light wind, changing continuously as some suddenly manage to glint in sunlight and others are strangled by darkness to lose their shimmering glory; shadows once more.
The breeze carries the smell of damp earth and the carpet of dead and dying leaves that carpets the ground. It wafts along gently, playfully even, but then at moments it gains in intensity as if suddenly reminded of some place it has to be. Then it picks up, gathering in strength until the leaves above and below wail in protest, whooshing and rustling against each other. The dead leaves on the ground come alive once more, picked up in the arms of the dancing air, twirling in complicated patterns around the trunks of the trees until they are laid gently onto their grave, the ground, by the dying breeze.
As calm descends once more, the sounds of life are heard. Birds chatter in the high branches, spreading their news to each other and also the thousand and one tappings, slitherings & rustling of bugs, worms, ants and snakes. Some sounds are better seen than heard; the silent fluttering of the wings of a butterfly caress the air around them so gently it, the air, doesn’t bother to report the insect’s presence to any waiting ears.
Beauty is simple here; the butterfly’s wings are coloured petals that seem to be covered in gold dust. As it floats ever so gracefully through the air, one would almost expect a trail of golden shavings to be scattered in its trail. The flower it lands on, almost hidden in the complex maze that is the roots of a tree, is as beautiful as its visitor. White petals swirled around an orange centre; it quivers gently as the insect sets itself onto its meal.
Small as these actors are in the drama that is the forest, there are even smaller ones on the stage of their own microcosms. Ants march in line up and down the trunk of a tree, as unrelenting an army as any that ever advanced over the African plains. Their legs, so thin they could punch holes in water, trample over the bark but leave no imprint, cause no sound. Worms burrow through the earth, blindly searching for what it is, they do not know, only that their lives depend on it. They are unfelt, unseen, unheard but just as alive as any of the other creatures that populate this place.
Creatures that, unaware of it, depend on each other for their continued existence. Creatures that might look at each other and see a nuisance, or a predator, or food; but in reality they behold their guardian, their brother in this life, their complement in the eternal dance that is existence as it makes its way through the tortuous road of time. These are creatures that will live and die together, never alone, always bound by the ties of being and never yet know it. Perhaps that is for the best, they did not eat of the fruit of knowledge so why torture them with its pains. Let us leave them as they are; alive and living, as life commanded them to do, as they only know how to do. Let us leave the cool embrace of the forest shade, let us retreat silently from that dark and mysterious enclave and regard it once from a distance, a wondrous castle of shadows, before we turn our gaze elsewhere.
***
The sun is truly a god here, or as the Ancients would put it; The God. Let us not argue; the heat is more real than any arguments we might care to bring up. As real as the celestial orb that hangs, burning, in the heavens. Its glory is more than any eye can bear and its heat, no its fury, is almost more than any living being can bear.
What else but fury can scorch the earth so relentlessly day in and day out? Without mercy or any gentleness, attacking the terrain with rays of heat as real as sharp spears that pierce the life out of any unfortunate unlucky enough to be on the wrong side of them. As is the land here, doomed to be below the sun and not above it; taken in a forceful embrace that has sucked the life out of the ground. Or as much of the life as is naïve to try and make a life in this region of hell on earth. For it is not only the sun that is guilty here, it’s the heavens as well, the clouds that dare not make their way to this remote outpost. Or when they do, they ride through the sky like stately ships and do not allow the slightest drop of moisture to escape from their snow white interiors. They cast a relieving shadow across the land, whisper the promise of rain in the ears of its thirst and then disappear, flying across the sky, chuckling at the poor unfortunates caught in their golden prison.
And golden it is, beautiful even. The sands undulate as far as the eye can see in shifting dunes that look like a ruffled golden carpet. Where plants grow, by some miraculous deal struck with nature, (or is it simply perseverance) they stand stiff and straight like sentinels, their cacti barbs ready to defend their honour, ready to repel any onslaught.
And it is quiet. An eerie silence broken only by the sound of the hot desert breeze. A silence that cannot be pierced, lays heavily on the land like a thick blanket as real as the absence of life in this god forsaken land. It is the type of silence that invites reflection just as the sand reflects the heat of the sun back to the heavens. Reflection on the life that will soon disappear from you if you stay here too long, how it is the sum of so much more than your just being alive but the fact that the world wants you alive and has made life flow through the earth in as much as the sand around you is dead. Reflection on the life you are fortunate enough to have, a life that you too often take for granted in the mistaken notion that one somehow deserves life. The absence of life in this place invites you to reconsider that notion. It is after all a place of quiet consideration, of quiet and solitary contemplation. The mystics were not lost when they retreated into the desert to pray;
far from it, they had found their home.
But just as much as the silence invites reflection it awakens voices. The mind undistracted with the constant rush of life about it has time to consider even those deepest fears hidden in the darkest corners of its reach. Voices that speak of death, of secrets long hidden and demons unexorcised in the dark corners of the soul. For in as much as many of us claim to know ourselves we pay little attention to that region that lies within preferring instead to consider the people who surround us. And it is only the strong who venture into those dark depths, only the wise who answer those unanswered questions.
Or perhaps I speculate too much? There is no strength in the snake that winds from side to side across the scorching desert sand, no bravery in the cactus that stands proudly green in this land that promises no water or nourishment for its survival. Perhaps there is no fury in the sun demanding to be worshipped in the heavens as it stays on the mind like some continuous prayer. Whatever. The landscape is what it is and asks no one to validate its existence. Again, the heat is more real than any arguments we care to think of.
The forest is thick with trees, as far as the eye can see in all directions, trees growing, silently living, quietly awake, waiting for something to happen; or not waiting at all. Simply existing in the microcosm of their individual universes. Their leaves are black where they are cast in shadow and shine green where they capture the golden light of the sun. Countless numbers of black & golden green, shifting in the light wind, changing continuously as some suddenly manage to glint in sunlight and others are strangled by darkness to lose their shimmering glory; shadows once more.
The breeze carries the smell of damp earth and the carpet of dead and dying leaves that carpets the ground. It wafts along gently, playfully even, but then at moments it gains in intensity as if suddenly reminded of some place it has to be. Then it picks up, gathering in strength until the leaves above and below wail in protest, whooshing and rustling against each other. The dead leaves on the ground come alive once more, picked up in the arms of the dancing air, twirling in complicated patterns around the trunks of the trees until they are laid gently onto their grave, the ground, by the dying breeze.
As calm descends once more, the sounds of life are heard. Birds chatter in the high branches, spreading their news to each other and also the thousand and one tappings, slitherings & rustling of bugs, worms, ants and snakes. Some sounds are better seen than heard; the silent fluttering of the wings of a butterfly caress the air around them so gently it, the air, doesn’t bother to report the insect’s presence to any waiting ears.
Beauty is simple here; the butterfly’s wings are coloured petals that seem to be covered in gold dust. As it floats ever so gracefully through the air, one would almost expect a trail of golden shavings to be scattered in its trail. The flower it lands on, almost hidden in the complex maze that is the roots of a tree, is as beautiful as its visitor. White petals swirled around an orange centre; it quivers gently as the insect sets itself onto its meal.
Small as these actors are in the drama that is the forest, there are even smaller ones on the stage of their own microcosms. Ants march in line up and down the trunk of a tree, as unrelenting an army as any that ever advanced over the African plains. Their legs, so thin they could punch holes in water, trample over the bark but leave no imprint, cause no sound. Worms burrow through the earth, blindly searching for what it is, they do not know, only that their lives depend on it. They are unfelt, unseen, unheard but just as alive as any of the other creatures that populate this place.
Creatures that, unaware of it, depend on each other for their continued existence. Creatures that might look at each other and see a nuisance, or a predator, or food; but in reality they behold their guardian, their brother in this life, their complement in the eternal dance that is existence as it makes its way through the tortuous road of time. These are creatures that will live and die together, never alone, always bound by the ties of being and never yet know it. Perhaps that is for the best, they did not eat of the fruit of knowledge so why torture them with its pains. Let us leave them as they are; alive and living, as life commanded them to do, as they only know how to do. Let us leave the cool embrace of the forest shade, let us retreat silently from that dark and mysterious enclave and regard it once from a distance, a wondrous castle of shadows, before we turn our gaze elsewhere.
***
The sun is truly a god here, or as the Ancients would put it; The God. Let us not argue; the heat is more real than any arguments we might care to bring up. As real as the celestial orb that hangs, burning, in the heavens. Its glory is more than any eye can bear and its heat, no its fury, is almost more than any living being can bear.
What else but fury can scorch the earth so relentlessly day in and day out? Without mercy or any gentleness, attacking the terrain with rays of heat as real as sharp spears that pierce the life out of any unfortunate unlucky enough to be on the wrong side of them. As is the land here, doomed to be below the sun and not above it; taken in a forceful embrace that has sucked the life out of the ground. Or as much of the life as is naïve to try and make a life in this region of hell on earth. For it is not only the sun that is guilty here, it’s the heavens as well, the clouds that dare not make their way to this remote outpost. Or when they do, they ride through the sky like stately ships and do not allow the slightest drop of moisture to escape from their snow white interiors. They cast a relieving shadow across the land, whisper the promise of rain in the ears of its thirst and then disappear, flying across the sky, chuckling at the poor unfortunates caught in their golden prison.
And golden it is, beautiful even. The sands undulate as far as the eye can see in shifting dunes that look like a ruffled golden carpet. Where plants grow, by some miraculous deal struck with nature, (or is it simply perseverance) they stand stiff and straight like sentinels, their cacti barbs ready to defend their honour, ready to repel any onslaught.
And it is quiet. An eerie silence broken only by the sound of the hot desert breeze. A silence that cannot be pierced, lays heavily on the land like a thick blanket as real as the absence of life in this god forsaken land. It is the type of silence that invites reflection just as the sand reflects the heat of the sun back to the heavens. Reflection on the life that will soon disappear from you if you stay here too long, how it is the sum of so much more than your just being alive but the fact that the world wants you alive and has made life flow through the earth in as much as the sand around you is dead. Reflection on the life you are fortunate enough to have, a life that you too often take for granted in the mistaken notion that one somehow deserves life. The absence of life in this place invites you to reconsider that notion. It is after all a place of quiet consideration, of quiet and solitary contemplation. The mystics were not lost when they retreated into the desert to pray;
far from it, they had found their home.
But just as much as the silence invites reflection it awakens voices. The mind undistracted with the constant rush of life about it has time to consider even those deepest fears hidden in the darkest corners of its reach. Voices that speak of death, of secrets long hidden and demons unexorcised in the dark corners of the soul. For in as much as many of us claim to know ourselves we pay little attention to that region that lies within preferring instead to consider the people who surround us. And it is only the strong who venture into those dark depths, only the wise who answer those unanswered questions.
Or perhaps I speculate too much? There is no strength in the snake that winds from side to side across the scorching desert sand, no bravery in the cactus that stands proudly green in this land that promises no water or nourishment for its survival. Perhaps there is no fury in the sun demanding to be worshipped in the heavens as it stays on the mind like some continuous prayer. Whatever. The landscape is what it is and asks no one to validate its existence. Again, the heat is more real than any arguments we care to think of.