Blood of this tree

There are some moments in life that are treats. Moments that don't quite exist except as margins of time set aside for observation and integration. These sweet moments are moments of reflection, where life seems to slow and the day seems to blur. All that's left is consciousness and you. Well, me, in this case. Leaves of all sizes are dancing around outside, some falling and others threatening to fall. And the wind is dancing through it all. Raindrops flirt with the impossible green of thick leaves, fresh knowledge laced throughout their (sy)stems. And I sit, watching, a performance just for me. There's a story everywhere waiting to be seen, waiting to be heard, waiting to be channeled, twisted and distorted — morphed into something else. There is always more. And this is growth.

How to talk about anything when you don't have the words? How to speak about growth whilst in movement? Is there not a lack of humility to speak as though you know when you've only just begun? I don't know, I really don’t. And that is why I'm writing this inquiry. Yes, it is an inquiry and not a statement, because I am now only beginning to pin down the possibilities of language concerning growth. But growth is like anything: tension and release. Thought and material. Dream and reality. One comes before the other, which produces one, which leads to another. It's always happening, growth. Nothing revolutionary, but we are always being changed.

As I sit here, circular fan blowing inconsistently over my head, I realize that nothing can be the same. From one breath to the next, it is a different life I encounter. From one rest to wake, it is a different reality with which I must reconcile. From one sentence to the next, a different lexicon I consider. This begs capacity. The great all within the wide and gigantic depths that make up the human being. I don't know much about the human being; I just know what I've read — what I've been told. In fact, I don't know if the human being is a real creature or one simply made up to make sense of the senseless. Because that's something we do, as humans(?). The whole thing is a laughing, senseless machine. And I'm smirking. Yes, nothing ever stays the same, yet some of us remain in the loops of non-change. Cycles that replay the same reality with different filters, different people, different air, but the same breath, the same heart, the same scars.

The gravitas has finally appeared, and the trees have slowed their dance. "We're onto something…" they say, as though they were the ones in control of my thoughts. As though they could really hide from me behind the clouds of my thinking and grasp onto any thread imaginable. Don't they know hardly anything sticks? Don't they know that to grasp is to begin your own demise? What is desire if not a grasping? What is all this, anyway? Is it all just one big flirt to say I love you, in some obscure way? I wonder that often. Specifically in those moments of open-hearted presence, sometimes forced. You know those situations that pull you out of your skin and force your personal horrors into your mind, then suck your heart through your chest and blow off the protective barrier so you are raw and faced with your insides? Bloody and fresh and full of nutrients. Why do you think vampires so enjoy fresh blood? Why do you think they need it? And where do you think our vitality comes from? Yes, sure, it comes from our blood, water of the body, but it is really our essence that provides the nutrients. Our energy is the currency of this life. Our attention the blood of this tree. Our shadows the seeds and our love the light. What does transmutation mean, you ask? It is to reduce something to its elemental or essential properties and create from this foundational space. It is to remain rooted while you die and rise again. It is to watch your heart shed its skin and keep your feet planted into the core of the earth as your heart grows anew and is placed back in your chest, tucked in and ready to rest until you rise again. It is to question your every breath until you questioned how you ever questioned yourself. Transmutation is gold. A pillar of growth, I'm learning.

Sometimes I wish I was with the wind. Wish I was the wind. And somewhere, in some dimension, I am. That's where I go when things become too complex in this realm. There are obvious distortions, clear as a cloudless sky. All the butterflies tell me so. And they're laughing, too. Those guys are always laughing. Laughing and posing. Divas, like my very own heart.

I don't get the point, though. Evil and destruction. Fear and hate. I just don't see the purpose. But I guess I'm not meant to because of who I am and where I come from. Fear is a curious creature — like being spellbound, like deep and fast-acting compulsion. It's a shame she sometimes tastes like love. My relationship with fear has grown, too. She's easier to spot, and she's losing her confidence. And I'm watching her fade, or change, or morph into another me I have yet to feel. She never meant to hurt me, fear, she's simply being herself. Our contract has been clear. You engage with me, I'll engage with you, she says. It's simple, and I trust it. But for this, to trust this contract in my way, I need capacity. Spaciousness that takes me from the past to imagined iterations of me in the matter of a breath. I need love — yes, to trust my fear, I need love. Love filters my vision so I follow fear right into the darkened corners of my bejeweled heart and shine so brightly the whole Earth glows green. To trust my love I need love. But they never told us it was always available, so I often must remember I'm sitting on it. Well, as you can imagine, my relationship with love has grown as well. She is the most flirtatious of them all. She's the most capacious of them all. She wants me to be just like her because she knows how good it feels to be clean and clear and not even worried about control because she lives in trust. Love is the ultimate shape-shifter, but I often find her in the wind: behind my knees, just under my chin, at the center of my palms. Sometimes she sweeps through between my legs and performs a cartwheel, just for me. As though she were the one in control of my smile. As though she were the wind beneath my wings. And you know where I'm going with this, so I'll trust you to let it land. Ah, trust. Trust is the space between I and am. It is belief where confidence is based on something one can never touch. A truth, I suppose? Well, my relationship with trust is growing, deepening. My relationship with truth even further ossifying. And my eyes are bulging. I'm silent, watching with my whole body yesterday's life unfold into today. Each breath a new promise, each release another tomorrow.