There's deep insight and inspiration contained within the modesty of a single seed and thus a reverence we owe to each fallen tree. Those encased fortresses of primal knowledge, filled with stories of survival and abundance. Supplied with sustenance for a bold beginning with no scripted ending. With only the valiant purpose of propelling life forward. As with us, they posses no choice of where they will land. Be it at the foot of parental roots, carried upon the wild wanderings of beasts, the intentions of a human hand or the whims of the wind. Be it upon a fertile pastures or a parched crack between oppressive concrete, it sings but one defiant song ..."Grow!" Patiently awaiting the conditions to burst apart , to be vulnerable to the elements and embark on a lifelong adventure. Summoning its resources, scavenging both the soil and the sky to fuel its innocent ambitions. These twin journeys , informed by the ancients, both tender and fatal in equal measure. For the sun may nourish but it may also evaporate the promise of sapling dreams. The clouds may swell with gifts of raindrops but find its generosity soon turn to an unforgiving flood. The ambitions of peers may overshadow their own and those mapless journeys into the soil are filled with peril. For while the ancients may whisper directions, it is a world filled with unpredictability. One teeming with life, each jostling and bursting with a yearning to be. Each sapling navigates these twin terrains with such yearning and grace. Seemingly unencumbered by doubt, comparison and the fear of mediocrity. In tune with that defiant primal song, "Grow!"
At times it overwhelms my senses. Even now, as my gaze locks on to those mighty jacarandas in the park across the street, I see living towers of perseverance. Their stories unraveling through the soil and sky. Overlapping with the lives of others with a fluidity that transcends the domains of language. Feeding, nurturing, offering calm, refuge and to those who might be still and see it, alternating waves of hope and beauty.For only an impoverished soul may look upon a tree as a mere object upon the landscape. Even when felled to the ground and left to our boundless devices, their beauty and utility continue. In our tools, furniture and artifacts. In these daily pages across which I write and unravel my soul! These fibres trace their origins to seeds. Seeds that sang a daily song.