the_tree

 

Imagine I were a tree. A tall, magnificent tree, many decades old. An ash tree, for example. I have seen much, experienced much. My bark bears traces left by many different animals, and by people who confessed their love beneath my canopy and carved a heart into my trunk.
I have lived through many beautiful sunny days.
And many storms have swept over my crown. Until now, none of these storms had ever harmed me. Sometimes a branch broke here, sometimes one broke there.
But now I have grown old. And I am tired.
And imagine this: the last storm simply knocked me over.
They say I died.

Now picture how my old, lifeless body became a home for many animals and fungi.
And I simply returned home. Back to where we all come from. Oh, what a reunion that was, let me tell you! I was allowed to speak of my life as a tree, while others spoke of their lives as a goat, or a lion, or a kangaroo.
And I was able to rest. How lovely. After so many years as a tree—who, compared to some others, did have a fairly quiet life, yet still: life is life.

Once I had rested long and well enough, the question arose what I wanted to do next. What did I want to return to life as?
Many who cannot or do not want to answer that question consult the Wheel of Fortune. They spin the wheel, and wherever the pointer stops determines what they are reborn as.
Exciting, but sometimes also disappointing.

Others take part in so-called challenges. The winner, for example, returns as a human, the loser as a blade of grass. Before these tournaments, it is decided which ranking earns which “prize” or, well, fate.
But such competitions and games of chance are nothing for me.

Still others have a very specific wish and simply voice it.
I also have such a wish, but I’m not ready to say it yet.
And do you know why?
Because I’m afraid of heights.

You see, I would like to return as a red kite, but I don’t quite dare, because red kites sometimes fly at incredibly high altitudes.
It fascinates me and frightens me at the same time.

That’s why I’ve been thinking about coming back next as a ladybird, or as a butterfly. That way I could practice flying first, at lower heights. And if that goes well, then next time I’ll become a red kite.

Why don’t I want to come back as a human?
That is a good question. A very good question.
I do want that—but only once I have been everything else.
Do you know why?

When we are reborn, as whatever we may be, we forget that we have ever been in the world before. Every time feels like the first time.
But humans possess the ability to remember. However, they must train this ability.

Now imagine I come into the world as a human, but have never been anything else before. So I will have the ability to remember my past lives, and perhaps I will train it until one day I succeed—only to find there is nothing to remember, because I have not lived any other life yet.
What a disappointment that would be!

And perhaps I would begin to doubt this human ability of remembering, and convince other people not to attempt it anymore because it leads nowhere anyway. Wouldn’t that be sad?
No, I don’t want to be responsible for that.

I would much rather convince people how wonderful it feels to soar high in the sky like a red kite, or how beautiful it is to flutter from blossom to blossom as a butterfly, how good aphids taste, and how grateful I was as a tree that there are ladybirds who eat the aphids from my leaves.
All this I want to be able to recount—drawn from my memory, from what I have lived.
That is a responsibility I gladly accept.