Enter the Void

Nature is a compass. A book told me that. Plants grow towards the light – phototropism – therefore, if the Sun rises on the East, trees bend to that direction. I think, I ought to check whether the willow tree is tending towards the light when I finish in the library. For the following few hours, I continue to read. More reading equates to more knowledge. With extended knowledge, I ensure everything I desire. I want to finish every book in the library.

*

Weather is bitter walking home. I amble, tuning in to the inner narrator that feeds my mind thought. Mid-way, I notice the willow tree that I ought to study. I stop momentarily, assessing whether the willow tree reaches towards the light. In return, I confront a sight I did not expect to see. This is not what I read in my books, I question. My books said that trees grow towards the sunlight… but this willow tree merely dangles to the ground!

Pale green, slender leaves hang downwards off thin branches, reaching only centimetres above the grass. Confused, I decide the willow tree does not bend towards the light because it does not know how to be a good tree. Books detail that nature loves light, and therefore, a normal tree ought to grow upwards.

“A stupid, drooping, willow tree,” I curse. A weeping willow – now, I understand the fitting name. I wonder why I bother to judge the willow tree in the first place. The way a willow tree grows is the least of my worries.

A pang of guilt surfaces as I turn on my heels to leave, the stir of emotion results in a channel of thought. Hindsight mocks the contemplation of whether the willow tree is a good tree or a bad tree. Why do I believe that I know how to be a smarter tree than the willow tree itself? I turn sheepishly, noting perhaps the criticism I propose is the reason the willow weeps. Guilt for my remark transforms to sorrow; and so, I mumble to the willow tree that I am sorry for suggesting it is stupid.

The Willow Tree stood. Wind intertwined through its leaves, generating soft movement, revealing a gift at its base. I feel a wash of relief throughout my body. By my surprise, the Willow Tree projects its forgiveness. I run closer to the Willow Tree, my mind racing through potential possibilities about what is to come. A feeling, rather a knowing, tells me the treasure and I are destined to be.

As I approach the Willow Tree, I behold a small, black notebook. I was hoping for a book to read, rather than a book to write, the inner-voice comments. However, I do not allow disappointment to show – it is a notebook worthy of a great owner. Upon touching the notebook, I enjoy the silken moleskin cover with the spine neatly bound, the cover soft as velvet. I envision what is it like to write on the textured paper, visualising a fountain pen depositing ink so gracefully, yet intricately. I sense the symbolic acceptance for the remark about the Willow Tree appearing stupid. I clear my throat to speak out loud.

“Willow Tree, I am also sorry I criticised your droopy leaves.” I hope for more gifts. Wind rustles through the leaves of the tree and I sit in wait. The Willow Tree has a funny way of communicating. Aimlessly, I explore the ivory pages of the notebook; the pages are thick and creamy, feeling buttery to the touch. A matching black ribbon rests delicately inside the comforting spine. An unfulfilled print on the front-page states:

'In case of loss, please return to:

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As a reward: $20,000_____________________________'

No name, but a scrawl of $20,000 notes the reward. This belongs to me, I rejoice.

Of course, it belongs to you, Human.

I stare at the Willow. I do not recall any books suggesting that trees can converse.

Is that so?

I withhold a response. Words of the Willow Tree echo within. Stillness is mirrored by the Willow Tree. Silence enters the void.

It lasts only a few moments. I imagine, how delusional ought I be to believe that trees can talk.

Do you believe in talking trees, Human?

“I am Ismena… meaning learned one.” I respond uncomfortably, “I have a lot of wisdom, you know, and I am aware that trees cannot talk.”

Do you think wise people like to talk to trees, Learned One?

I grip my small, black notebook tighter. I ponder the question despite thoughts of how silly it feels to do so.

A Wise One talks with the trees, as a Wise One knows the trees love to listen.

Wondering whether the Willow Tree thinks I am wise for responding to its call, I clear my throat to ask a question.

“Willow Tree, why do you love to listen if you cannot speak?”

Trees love unconditionally, Learned One.

Scowling at the answer, I pause. A tree that does not even have a mouth to speak from, how delusional I am. This tree is playing mind games! Upon reflecting on the tree’s response, a feeling of joy arises within.

“As the tree answered my question…” I mutter aloud, “… the Willow Tree must think I am wise! Trees talk to wise people. Everybody loves wise people.”

Learned One, I love unconditionally.

I sigh. If the tree is wise itself, it would know that it already told me it loves unconditionally. I am not interested in love from a tree.

Learned One, listen to understand.

My brows bury further down my face. Why is this tree talking about love when I want to know if I am wise? Does the Willow Tree not appreciate I have read most books in the library? An interruption breaks the flow of thought.

To know is not the same as to experience, Learned One.

I sit in discontent and look down at the notebook. I feel defeat. Pages untouched. Void. A reward of $20,000 is certainly more useful than an empty notebook. If the Willow Tree really loved me unconditionally, it would offer the $20,000 reward!

$20,000 dollars, and so it be.

Weaving wind welcomes me closer; I embrace the body of the Willow Tree. Cautiously, I accept, entering through the cascade of leaves. My mind fixes on the $20,000 that the Willow Tree promises. My hands clutch the light I intuitively believe the leaves were pointing towards all along.

Circling to the other side, out of sight, rests a wide mouth; a gaping hole large enough to fit a young child. Bark curves inwards, delicately carving the shape of a heart into its robust body. Inside, lies the promise of $20,000 dollars in gold coins.

Ching, ching, ching, goes the money tree.

And every time it chings, money comes to me, I elevate with emotion. Oh, how I can do so much with $20,000 – I am free! I can finally be whoever I want! The fantasy abruptly ends.

Why would you wait until you have $20,000 to be that person?

I scoff. Is it not better to ask what righteous things I will spend my money on? Then, the tree will know I am wise and good. I stop to consider how a young girl could possibly carry so many coins home. A wheelbarrow, over and over, would be necessary. I do not want anybody visiting the Willow Tree as I relay my fortune! If I used a wheelbarrow, people would see my treasure. Worse, want a share! I worry, wondering if my gold coins can disappear as fast as they appear.

Be mindful of what you wish for, Wise One.

I roll my eyes and retort; I should have asked for $20,000 in cash…

“How did you give me the $20,000?” I manage to speak, “This has not been documented in any books I have read.”

You gave the $20,000 to yourself, Wise One.

Conversations with the trees are difficult. I wish the tree would tell the truth. Surely, receiving $20,000 is more complicated than a simple wish. How could I possibly give myself the gold coins when I did not possess them in the first place?

Knowledge is for the mind, experience is for the body, wisdom is for the spirit.

Perplexed, I decide to listen to understand. Stopping for a moment to think about what to ask the Willow Tree next, I conclude that if the trees listen to wise people speak, the Willow Tree himself ought to be wise. An epiphany.

I boldly state, “What is the meaning of my life, Wise Willow?”

It is not your life, but life itself.

In the simplicity of the answer, I react, “How absurd to imply that I do not have a life. I have a story… my life story! My emotions, my pain, my love… the things I have overcome! Of course, I have a life – I want to know the meaning of my life.” Though, I know a tree cannot tell me the answer to my life, as it cannot even speak for itself.

Wise One, it is the Self that feels the answer to your question.

I pause. I hear the Willow Tree loud and clear, but it doesn’t seem to move a mouth. Quietness surrounds the space between the Willow Tree and I. Nostalgia recognises the inner feeling of aliveness. Blood flowing through the body, tense movement of knotted muscles, and the tranquillity of a deep breath. In and out.

We are One. One in knowing, experiencing and feeling that I am.

I breathe. I am. Grasping the notebook firmly, the velvet touch prompts a question.

“Why did you give me this empty notebook, Willow Tree?”

Only in the void can one create something both universal and unique.

Listening to understand seems difficult. Stillness enters the present as I examine deep into the ivory of notebook. Ideas dance deep within my brain; concepts that exist only in thought, not yet in reality. An unwritten book. An unpainted masterpiece. An unsung symphony. Ironically, silence often has the most to say.

I gaze at my new-found fortune. My mind produces various thoughts to suggest the gold coins are not a treasure for my own enjoyment. An honourable feeling, appreciating the opportunity of such gold, overlooks the self-doubt. ‘A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool’, I mindfully recite.

“What should I write in the notebook, Wise Willow?” I fantasize.

Only the silence can tell you that.

Lingering presence. Infinite possibilities are found in the unknown. In the space yet to be filled, lies the existence of all possibilities. A chance to bring an idea into fruition. Creation. An atmosphere of serenity surrounds my cold body as I feel the essence of the tree. A warm, unconditional feeling of love.

Bringing the notebook to my chest, I observe the corners of my mouth turn upwards, phototropically. I smile.

I am just a Willow Tree. Besides, everybody knows willow trees cannot talk.