The
path towards the forest that contained the trees of sadness was a well worn
one. Many bare footfalls had indented it into the earth exposing roots that
could trip one if unaware. A hollow wind moved between branches carrying
memories that haunted tear stained eyes, drying the salty wetness. Autumn had
left the trees exposed, their tortured limbs twisted with grief.
An empty place one might think and yet where the trees touched each other there was a smoothness to their trunks, as if a warm energy had been exchanged massaging the wrinkles of worry away from them, and on the ground below this smoothness small sproutlets of greenery were appearing, unfurling fern fronds, orchid stems flourishing in the humid moisture the shared tears of branches created.
If a traveller was to lift their head for a moment and reach out to touch the smoothness the whole forest would shiver in gratitude and empathy and a whisper of music would echo through the space. The loneliness of the trees speaking through instruments no human hand had created, for who wants to wander long in the forest of sadness and yet so many find themselves there, some becoming lost and never finding their way from amongst its arms.
For the ways to and from there are as many and varied as there are creatures who walk, swim or fly on the globe that its roots reach into, and for each person the way out is different.Some in a daze of forgetfulness remember no other landscape and become rooted to the spot, paralyzed, in time they grow roots and wooden limbs and find themselves one of the very trees they once wandered amongst.
So it is also the forest of compassion for it feels with the journeyers who pass its way and it is this compassion that fertilises a small field of white roses in the very heart of the woods, where the paths are softened by silk-like petals and the air is perfumed. If one finds her feet walking this path she is changed forever, it is here that friends sit quietly waiting to gently offer a way home.
An empty place one might think and yet where the trees touched each other there was a smoothness to their trunks, as if a warm energy had been exchanged massaging the wrinkles of worry away from them, and on the ground below this smoothness small sproutlets of greenery were appearing, unfurling fern fronds, orchid stems flourishing in the humid moisture the shared tears of branches created.
If a traveller was to lift their head for a moment and reach out to touch the smoothness the whole forest would shiver in gratitude and empathy and a whisper of music would echo through the space. The loneliness of the trees speaking through instruments no human hand had created, for who wants to wander long in the forest of sadness and yet so many find themselves there, some becoming lost and never finding their way from amongst its arms.
For the ways to and from there are as many and varied as there are creatures who walk, swim or fly on the globe that its roots reach into, and for each person the way out is different.Some in a daze of forgetfulness remember no other landscape and become rooted to the spot, paralyzed, in time they grow roots and wooden limbs and find themselves one of the very trees they once wandered amongst.
So it is also the forest of compassion for it feels with the journeyers who pass its way and it is this compassion that fertilises a small field of white roses in the very heart of the woods, where the paths are softened by silk-like petals and the air is perfumed. If one finds her feet walking this path she is changed forever, it is here that friends sit quietly waiting to gently offer a way home.
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