In the reaches of the deep forest you come across a lightning-struck tree. Its
face is wrinkled and its hands are empty, but tall it stands— cutting through
the currents of time. Short it is—and shielded from the sun by the canopy of
its daughters—who allow only the softest rays to beam from high above.
As you approach the old figure, drawn in by its apparent
wisdom
, you find
numerous symbols carved into the bark. Many are carefully etched, intricate and
magnificent, featuring detailwork that could not have taken less than
hours to inscribe— even days in the case of the grandest ones. Masters must
have poured their hearts into this tree, the culminations of their
respective
journeys
all converging in this one spot.
Awe-stricken, you bask in the labors of great and capable hands, when your eye is drawn to
the simpler carvings. Symbols etched with haste, betraying desperation or
patience all-too thin. As you examine them one after another, it cannot but
dawn on you just what stories these imperfections tell. One begins with
grandeur, only to quickly trail into a weak and wavy scratch. Another, you're
convinced, is the initial pass at one ambitious
vision
, specs of
dried blood making for its untimely signiture.
Inspired by your
observations
, you begin lovingly copying these symbols unto
a heavy tome you've borne. Only, moments later you find that one of your many
predecessors has already set to the task and saw it complete— a labor the
fruits of which now rests at your feet. This
book
— entwined in deep
reds and tarnished gold—was loved dearly and carried far. Gently leafing
through its contents, you realize the tome is far too thick and full to
encompass only the features of this one tree. You realize there and then
that this zenith—this culmination of a thousand journeys—it is merely a place
of rest for ten thousand journeys more.
Drink from your
canteen
, o traveler, let the myriads of this
world rest for but a moment- and drink your fill from the wellsprings of this
one tree.