The Tree of Life, Part 1: Prelude
Words
Fail me not
Not now
Now in this final hour
So often before did you fall
like seeds upon frozen soil
Bearing no yield
You are but dust, I know
But be the dust that is wiped away
From ancient tomes
Hiding wisdom, blessed words
Or the dust motes of pollen
In the wind, looking for fertile land
To spur growth into something more
Blessed words
Fail me not
Not now
Now in this final hour
Or must I write my words in blood for them to be understood?
Tan skin glistening with drops of seawater reflects the warm evening sunlight. It is quiet, most of the people who live there have retired to their private abodes by this hour. He often comes to this place at this time. The sun does not burn too hotly and there are no people to disturb the tranquillity he feels lives in this place. Outwards over the ocean, he casts his eyes. On and on and on and on. Into the horizon and beyond. A warm breeze reaches out from over the sea and gently caresses his cheek. The sand is still warm around his feet. The sea murmurs in steady rhythm and with light tone. He wonders what it is saying; what stories it has to tell. Calm, he feels as the sun slowly sinks beyond the horizon and as his wet skin slowly dries in its last warmth. From the corner of his eye, he sees a spray of water and for a second it sparkles warmly in the air before rippling back into the ocean. He imagines spirits playing. Naked spirits dancing, laughing, singing; bathed in the dying light of the sun.
Blue ocean surrounds as white cliffs soar over its cruising waves. In the morning, sunlight dances across the rippling tides to greet the shore. In the evening, it retires. A shadow of light contracting as spirits of the land and sea come to life.
Outside, snow falls in heavy measures. Soon the world is covered in a blanket of white and all who are under its embrace lie fast asleep as if by a spell. All but one whose earnest eyes gaze through the open bedside window into the dark, mysterious quiet.
Winter comes like a thief in the night to steal away Summer’s warmth.
Unfocused eyes apprehend the spiralling descent of the snowflakes. In the distance the wind dances to a wistful tune. He imagines he can hear the snowflakes landing; the crunching sound as they conform to the already existing sea of snow. It is a silent sound. Silent as the “s” in island is silent; there, but more of a feeling. Silent as the pauses in music are silent; loud without sound. A crisp, sparkling feeling. Calm, he feels as the chill wind caresses him through the open window and as he silently listens to the first movement of the winter’s symphony. It’s a deep calm, disturbed only ever so slightly by the knowledge that the moment has to pass.
Swirling torrents of snow converge on a settlement never quite reaching the steady state; form the outlined silhouette of a creature: spirit of snow. Spirit, like truth, changing remains unchanged; breath never-ending. Spirit whose vision invites unravelling chaos, yet a strange peace and stillness rests within the violent motion. As if time itself stops as you gaze upon… Spirit beckons to that in you which never truly rests, but whose voice is seldom heard.
How and where does a story begin? Is it the one or another? Life itself has many beginnings. A string of continuous, repeating patterns of which one can see neither the end nor the beginning, how does one decide where “the” pattern actually begins? Any chosen interval which repeats can be construed as “the repeating unit”, and so, since space is infinitely divisible and the patterns continuous, there are an infinite number of possible endings and beginnings. And the hero’s journey, though unique every time, is forever repeated, is it not? When will a hero ever not be needed? Life itself is a hero’s journey.
Also, is not life — what life is — changing from one moment to the next? As the universe expands and its elements reorganize within it, are not all things within the universe, life amongst them, changed? Thus, now is a beginning to life, and now and now; life is beginning and ending in any given moment as it is continuously reinvented.
Furthermore, one might ask in what space life first manifested itself as a phenomenon. How long ago? Where did it happen — was it far away from where we are, on some distant planet? What was the universe like? What were the conditions in which life first happened? Was it hotter or colder than it is now? Was it in the oceans or on land, or perhaps somewhere in space?
There are many beginnings to life. I suppose one might say however, that a hero’s journey begins with a choice — a choice to distinguish oneself and step forth from the crowd to confront some ungodly fiend — and in that choice, perhaps one is chosen? Whatever the case, our hero steps forth — forth from the light of the known and familiar and into the great darkness of the world.
