I recall a quote that gave me pause. I will paraphrase it here: "When you come into the presence of the infinite you must be willing to possess it without a desire for any of it at all". I thought of this on my 6AM hike, as I stared out at a world so ripe with beauty that all thought stood still before it. For a moment I was neither observer nor observed, just a part of an infinite whole- complete. A conscious landscape in rapture before its own beauty. And then, in no time at all, my sense of self returned with a desire to capture it in photo, art or word. Thought described the many hues of autumn as they rippled and swayed in the early dawn. Thought described the gentle arc of deer tracks across golden grass and the rusty, auburn hues of flower dried in sun and wind. Thoughts of the brilliant blue of daybreak framed by hills golden and rising. Thoughts of trees dropping leaves in a fall palette, too luminous for brush or paint, extending across a wide horizon. I thought. The moment disappeared beneath my desire to hold it, to relate it, to communicate it. I was once again removed, observing splendor from a perch of separation, but for an instant Angelina had dissolved into a landscape of infinite beauty. In its wide embrace my thought provoked littleness was laughable, gossamer in the breeze.
Yes, I know it doesn't look like much. It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall. The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep. But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy. I am a woman who loves the spring. I nearly live for it. When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis. I gorge. This year has been hard. Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally. The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...
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love, Karuna