As the wind
blows in the west
And trees
grow up in a sunny glow
On dark
paths, though I tread
I shall
return to Thee, my Lord
Far off in the distant hills,
where now travelers seldom journey, there grows a mighty oak tree, a pillar
sticking out against its surroundings of grass and sage. A wash rolls next to
the oak in early spring, but quietly disappears as the hot sun of summer dries
the mostly exposed earth.
Through some miracle of nature,
one year when the rains and sun were just right, somehow the oak seed managed
to take root in the wet soil while water was still abundant, and began its
great journey of life, which began with no man recording it, and has lasted
longer than for any man to note its end.
One bright, glowing spring, the
tree emerged from its winter slumber, with sprouts of green leafs coming forth
at every angle and on every branch to soak in the warm bath of sunlight.
They grew quickly in the
idealistic conditions, all eager to enjoy the plenty the sun had to offer. They
felt the glow and enjoyed the tingle of the wind rustling between them, with
the companionship of hundreds of other leaves talking and moving around them.
It truly was a bustling spring, with all sorts of life in the air, unfolding as
a sublime dance in the sky and earth, tree, grass, and water.
Yet there was one leaf which
opened slowly and weak. When he finally emerged, he was curved and did not move
easily in the wind like the others, but he kept growing and straightening. Soon,
he stretched the tips of his green veins to their full length and could bath
fully in the sunlight. He had missed some of the most radiant days of spring,
but was determined to enjoy it no less. Perched near the top of the tree, he
could see far the grasses making their wistful patterns in the evening wind,
and the water tumbling in its dynamic formations. At his height the stronger
winds allowed him to flip and flutter with more eagerness than all those around
him.
Leafs near enjoyed his company
and good-nature, and they played and danced together. One leaf, that was
slightly below and easily visible by him, particularly enjoyed his constant
motion, and together they flickered sun towards each other in a golden dance of
rays.
Quickly though, the liveliness
of spring swept into the dryness of summer, and some leaves wearied of the
golden sun and windy dance. Some even fell quietly to the ground, leaving the
sun and wind for the cooler, shade-filled ground.
But not the leaf near the top of
the tree. He still bathed in the sun and loved to dance. Some of his friends
were gone, but most stayed. They did not dance as much as he, but once in a
while, when the wind was just right, he could get them to. And the leaf just
below, his favorite, still flickered back messages in the resplendent sun, and
together they made music of light and green.
The months rolled on and with
each new summer day, more leaves dried and fell. When a rainstorm finally did
come, it was not the exciting time as before, but a drudgery to be past. Except
for a few, like the leaf at the top for the tree, who swayed gleefully with
each new drop.
But the rains grew colder and
nights longer and leaves began to change color more and with each change of
color, more drifted gracefully to join the others on the grassy ground. Soon
most all his friends had left, and one day, even his friend just below made
a last glimmer of her now yellow surface, then broke off, going back and forth
in the air, as if waving an unwilling farewell to the friend above, and finally
landing, joining old friends on the soft earth.
He almost fell as well, in an
attempt to catch that last joyous beam, to try and hold on to that brilliant
glimpse which seemed so deeply burned into him. But he couldn’t. He didn’t. He
held on, whirling in the wind.
In the early evenings, though much colder, the wind spiraled around his now dry, and yellow-brown self, and for a moment he remembered those few spring days when the beautiful beams of the sun and moon glimmered and the warmth and light of life all around filled the grasses and the air completely.
In the early evenings, though much colder, the wind spiraled around his now dry, and yellow-brown self, and for a moment he remembered those few spring days when the beautiful beams of the sun and moon glimmered and the warmth and light of life all around filled the grasses and the air completely.
Then the wind would stop, night filled
the atmosphere, and the chill air enveloped him. The memories of moments before
would fade into the darkness of night.
Shortly, snow fell and the few
remaining leaves fell with it. Still the leaf near the top of the tree held on,
the lone leaf, in a lone tree in a gray field of white. He saw his friends on
the distant ground, including his golden friend, just before the snow comforter
covered them.
The snow piled high, and
continued to stack up, yet the leaf held firm in the tree in the cold stale
air.
One day a traveler, rare as they
are, walked over the small snow-covered hill where the oak tree stood. Looking
up into the tree he thought to himself how curious that one leaf alone stood in
the top of the tree. Though the man was tired, cold, and eager to return to his
distant cabin, the peculiarity of the situation pushed him to take some snow in
his hands, form it into a ball, and direct it toward the top of the tree.
Flying just past the lone leaf,
it made the stale air rush around him, and for a moment, the warmth and
excitement of the event caused him to remember vague distant memories of
sunbeams, dancing grasses, running water, and a leaf flickering back golden
beams at him. The emotion and happiness of days gone by engulfed him as he
broke from his perch and glided down onto the white plainness below. There he
landed as one dark spot on the white background. All his friends feet below, he
was alone, cold, and dead in a field of white.
The traveler was about to trudge
on to his cabin before night fell, but looked to the leaf and felt he could
almost hear it mumbling a cry to itself, “I cannot ask you for anything, for
what am I to you, but I am cold and alone, and impossibly distant from all I
have ever known and loved sitting alone in this cold wasteland, because of my desire to dance in the wind.
The traveler, half smiling, for
hearing what perhaps was not there, turned quietly and
moved meaningfully towards the lone dark dot. And though the air was getting colder, and the
night was settling fast, the man pulled from his pack a small shovel, and began
to dig into the pack of snow. Once his hole reached the earth, where grasses
and leafs and water had already begun to melt together to create nutrients for
new life, the man put the leaf quietly into his hands, looked at it with a
smile that showed overwhelming covering sadness and disappointment, then
dropped the leaf into the bottom of the hole. The hole was covered, and the
traveler hurried on his way.
The leaf in the wind now lay
silently, under the white blanket, finally at peace.
Standing quietly and firmly in the field, the oak tree still stands out from its surroundings of white, resilient despite sometimes harsh conditions, and grows from the nutrients of the leaves and grasses dancing together with earth and water, just beneath the snow.
Standing quietly and firmly in the field, the oak tree still stands out from its surroundings of white, resilient despite sometimes harsh conditions, and grows from the nutrients of the leaves and grasses dancing together with earth and water, just beneath the snow.
“To
everything there is a season,
A time to
every purpose under the heaven…
A time to
weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to
mourn, and a time to dance…”
-Ecclesiastes
3: 1, 4
