This is how we writers start: Tiny figures hunched at the bottom of metaphorical Giant Redwood trees. We can crane our necks up until the bones creak and crack – and still not see the top – and the girth of the tree makes walking round it both arduous and long.
But, if we lie on our backs and relax, we are able, finally, to see the vast trunks narrowing and, through them, the spears of welcome sunlight striking the green sward.
All around us, under our tree and its companions, are other tiny figures, all trying to work out the best, quickest, safest way to get to the top.
The tree continues its arboreal existence. It cares nothing for our puny humanity and brittle hopes. Its breaths are gigantic and slow; its heartbeat pumps millions of gallons of sap into the vessels; its cycle of life disregards our needs.
Perhaps, as we lie at the bottom, at ease with the rhythms of nature, we can learn something from this thrumming of vegetable life: That the mad dash to reach the top takes us ever further away from the roots, the nutrients; that looking down from a perilously high position takes away our close connection with soil and forest creatures, sun-warmed bark and the falling of leaves.
If we look up and dream, a magical world is forever at our fingertips.
If we reach the top, do we not then have to shave off all the spurs, or even pull the tree up after us (in a manner of speaking) so that the hordes below are not able to join us in our lonely eyrie?
Tree of Writing.
Tree of Life.
Spheres and wisdom, realms and otherworldy beings.