The unsurpassable delight

Image from Jakking

Have I not
touched
the freedom
of non-attachment?
Have I not
been spent
with ecstasy
from love unmade?
Has my languor
not been
sweetened by
your ageless perfume?
Haven't the
shadows
of my gloom
been irradiated by
the lustre of
your truth?
Haven't I
died
and risen
in the womb
of your
eternally unfolding mystery?
Why then
do I scrounge
in mindless desperation
for scraps of
fleeting relief
hoping
as only a fool would
that they will
somehow offer
the unsurpassable
delight
that is only ever found
in
you?

You are!

You are
a speck of enchantment
whirling dervishly
in the eternal playground
of love

You are
a mystery
pretending to be
ordinary

You are
a longing
endlessly longing
for itself


You are
god's sacred space
a shrine for
adoration.

Oh tree, oh mystery

I wonder if trees have rituals. Or perhaps they don't need them. Yet for us humans, trees are symbolically rich with extant meaning.

The Bible warns about eating from the archetypal Tree of Knowledge. In Celtic mythology, trees are symbolic of a range of human and supernatural qualities and phenomena such as magic (Rowan), enchantment (Ash), wisdom (Hazel), good fortune (Holly) and death (Willow). These and other trees were reminders and the focus of elaborate and portent rituals and celebrations.

I have always felt a great affinity with trees, spending oodles of childhood hours gazing up at them, innocently reassured and enchanted by them. How they evoke so effortlessly that deep-seated sense of mystery and awe that we lose sight of in the flotsam and jetsam of mundane existence!



The Sound of Trees

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

Robert Frost @ Spirit of Trees