The Whispers of Trees
The ground lay hard and grainy in my hands; softer to my feet, but only because of their durable nature. I relaxed and allowed my hair to fall backwards unto the soil, feeling the grains slightly distanced behind the mat of strands.
The wind picked up, rushing over the hills on its journey to faded glory; of which I knew nothing. I wistfully requested passage on such an expedition, but it would always bring me back to where I began in a sense of nostalgic self-allusion. For now, however, I felt it brush my hair and cleanse my lungs with its cool and odorless touch, purified by the science of abrasion.
When the wind died, I sat up and turned to look at the brush. Within it were dozens of plants and a few trees; the trees were oaks and sycamores for the most part but the others I had not a clue. They were so common and colorless that few bothered to look closely or question their identity. I could lament this fact, seek to change it, or ignore it.
The latter seems to work best in these situations, for I was far to comfortable to trouble my mind in making a mental note of it or to get up and take care of it straight away. The wind suddenly picked up again, and as it did the oaks' leaves fluttered in a pale unison, glued together by the branches which held them, containing a semblance of one shape. But the shape was of many, and as I looked at it carefully I could see that each leaf moved by itself, as one who dances his own way to a specific tune. The tune affects everyone differently, even if those two were twins, for the twins are not in the same place and have not led the same life.
Each leaf, though it came from the same tree, encountered different hardships throughout its life. Some decayed and fell, others were picked off by a careless traveler. Sometimes a branch would be ripped off its limb and admitted to the whirlwind of the sky. to be embraced and allowed entrance to the threshold of wind's spirit. Where the importance lies here, is that so many take each thing for granted.
But what is wrong with that? If this tree were not here another would be, or perhaps another two or three! Who can determine what life we should deem as holy? Who determines what we should revere in awe and splendor? It was then I recalled the mallorn and the leaves of Lorien. What was once lost shall never again be. many species have walked this Earth to only fade into nothing; skeletons and imprints on ancient rock. Should we treat everything we see as unique and as for a limited time? Should we grant each action we can commit as a privilege?
The wind blew again, whipping my hair into a dance of frivolity. I wished that I could see each hair dance as it desired, but right then I was staring at the oak. Some leaves and debris, I noticed, were cast at mercy into the clouds and dwindled into the unknown. They were in a sense discarded, in another set loose, in yet another ran free.
We must appreciate the beauty, but we should not dwindle on the past. Too much dawdling leads to decay and loss; which in turn lead to longer regret and an ever growing vortex. This we have learned from Lorien, and this I find sad, but I have learned to move on.
The ground lay hard and grainy in my hands; softer to my feet, but only because of their durable nature. I relaxed and allowed my hair to fall backwards unto the soil, feeling the grains slightly distanced behind the mat of strands.
The wind picked up, rushing over the hills on its journey to faded glory; of which I knew nothing. I wistfully requested passage on such an expedition, but it would always bring me back to where I began in a sense of nostalgic self-allusion. For now, however, I felt it brush my hair and cleanse my lungs with its cool and odorless touch, purified by the science of abrasion.
When the wind died, I sat up and turned to look at the brush. Within it were dozens of plants and a few trees; the trees were oaks and sycamores for the most part but the others I had not a clue. They were so common and colorless that few bothered to look closely or question their identity. I could lament this fact, seek to change it, or ignore it.
The latter seems to work best in these situations, for I was far to comfortable to trouble my mind in making a mental note of it or to get up and take care of it straight away. The wind suddenly picked up again, and as it did the oaks' leaves fluttered in a pale unison, glued together by the branches which held them, containing a semblance of one shape. But the shape was of many, and as I looked at it carefully I could see that each leaf moved by itself, as one who dances his own way to a specific tune. The tune affects everyone differently, even if those two were twins, for the twins are not in the same place and have not led the same life.
Each leaf, though it came from the same tree, encountered different hardships throughout its life. Some decayed and fell, others were picked off by a careless traveler. Sometimes a branch would be ripped off its limb and admitted to the whirlwind of the sky. to be embraced and allowed entrance to the threshold of wind's spirit. Where the importance lies here, is that so many take each thing for granted.
But what is wrong with that? If this tree were not here another would be, or perhaps another two or three! Who can determine what life we should deem as holy? Who determines what we should revere in awe and splendor? It was then I recalled the mallorn and the leaves of Lorien. What was once lost shall never again be. many species have walked this Earth to only fade into nothing; skeletons and imprints on ancient rock. Should we treat everything we see as unique and as for a limited time? Should we grant each action we can commit as a privilege?
The wind blew again, whipping my hair into a dance of frivolity. I wished that I could see each hair dance as it desired, but right then I was staring at the oak. Some leaves and debris, I noticed, were cast at mercy into the clouds and dwindled into the unknown. They were in a sense discarded, in another set loose, in yet another ran free.
We must appreciate the beauty, but we should not dwindle on the past. Too much dawdling leads to decay and loss; which in turn lead to longer regret and an ever growing vortex. This we have learned from Lorien, and this I find sad, but I have learned to move on.