Three trees within four feet of each other visually struck me. The sight caused a thread of thought about life, living and the progressive cycle of being I have contemplated from that day to this moment. The elder tree stood tallest with trunk and branches above the others. It’s brown and crumpled leaves dangled in the wind as its stems loosened, ready to fall at the mildest gust. The coming gentle breeze would have been imperceptible if not for the dainty bobbing of red leaves on the medium tree. It was slightly more robust than the elder and showed roots thriving like waves on a beach breaching and diving back into the deep soil ocean. The runt in the triad obviously had room to grow, more skies to see and ground to cover. Its supple bright green leaves twisted as carelessly as a child spinning to the point of vertigo, basking in the rays of a sun and grass it was only beginning to know.
I sat, watched and waited a few minutes for impetus. The three generations of trees conveyed something already well enough illustrated in real time. So, the various colorful art implements and drawing paper I was so proud to have bought and brought out for play would not have done justice to what I witnessed. At that point, I thought it most appropriate to translate the scene literally. Thoughts of the many generations of aged wise family and community elders I knew growing up lent perspective. Through that lens and with a sudden push from Zephyr, there was my sign and inspiration….
Van Cortlandt Park, in the zone below my feet and buttocks and directly before my eyes, proved to be mystical space that day. It inspired the beginning of that short-story and once more, indelibly conveyed through those trees, the Truth of One-ness as I’ve come to know it. Though the trees were different sizes, shapes and ages; they shared the same ground, rain and sun. No matter how they differed, why or for how long, the ground which birthed and supported them would be a resting place for all of them in due time.
My father, a minister and mother, then a social worker modeled the “we’re all G-d’s children” attitude. That disposition was reinforced in the developmental research school I attended. Since kindergarten, I played with Blumsachs, Caraballos, Hofers, Sheikhs, Smiths, Ngs, Odebanjos, et al. As boys and girls then, we knew our branches and knots differed but we played house under the same roof, on the same playground, with the same care-free abandon. Though we noticed our differences then, they were nothing of note. Come play, snack and nap time we were all the same.
One.
