“In nature, nothing is perfect and everything is perfect. Trees can be contorted, bent in weird ways, and they’re still beautiful.”
Alice Walker
Trees contorted, yet majestic; bent in weird ways, yet reaching the clouds – I saw them in a narrow pathway in the courtyard of Good Shepherd auditorium in Bangalore. Webbed branches of these trees fill you with awe! Looking up, you can only see the chained sky with its scattered clouds trying to escape from the tangled boughs. Can sky be so intimidated by trees? Standing under these trees, one can sense the helplessness of the sky prisoned between the majestic contorted branches.
How many generations have these trees seen? How many stories do they carry in their heart? Being a silent witness to the sorrows, smiles and pains of the passing generations of humankind has added many wrinkles on the trees. Wouldn’t their imprisoned hearts wish to spill out those stories to the newest generations who walk past them? Wouldn’t they be waiting to unburden their hearts of the many untold stories they still hold?
The buttress roots of these trees have been a nurturing place for some money plants. These roots are the ones who decided to grow laterally on their own when they find the trees are not deeply rooted or lacking nutrition. They help the trees from falling off or malnourished. The gigantic trees at the mercy of these roots!! These roots are cradling the money plants with their wrinkled limbs reminding us that they all live in harmony.
The air underneath these trees has a profound wisdom. The soft breeze that blows here has a mysterious rhythm. It can fill you with a sense of enigma, a sense of bewilderment and a sense of longing to be a part of them! When you are forced to leave their presence, a sense of abundance lingers in your mind….
Let our eyes feed on a morsel of nature, our ears the rhythm and music of Mother Earth. Why fret and hurry? As the poet says, let Nature be the anchor of our thoughts, the nurse, the guide, the guardian of our heart and soul!
“Once again I see
Wordsworth
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! “
Silo- A Storehouse for Threshed Musings 