The Trees Remember
You stand among them, these trees that do not ask for names. They do not need to be defined to exist. They grow because they are. They reach for light without questioning if they deserve it. Their roots tangle with the dead, with the forgotten, with all that has fallen before them.
And yet, they rise.
You are here, watching, listening, trying to know. But to know is impossible. To know is to take something infinite and press it into something small enough to carry. To name, to define, to explain—this is the work of men, not the work of God.
God does not define. God is the wind that moves through the branches, the silence between sounds, the space between what we think and what we feel. God is the root system, where trees share their strength with one another without needing to be told why.
You were taught to name, to label, to sort, to carve reality into bite-sized truth.
But the trees do not sort themselves. The river does not decide which way to flow. The wind does not ask permission to move.
And yet, we demand the world explain itself to us. We ask why we suffer, why we feel alone, why the shape of our lives does not match the map we were given.
But the map was drawn by hands that had never walked the land. The roads we follow are not the ones that lead us home but instead lead to where we came from which looks different every time we look back. And the questions we ask are only echoes of the stories we were told to believe.
Step back.
Look at yourself not as you were taught to see,
but as you are.
Not a name, not a title, not a collection of wounds and wants. You are awareness wrapped in skin, a current that has always been flowing, a thought passing through the mind of something vast.
You have spent so long trying to understand. But what if that was never the point? What if you are not here to explain, to organize, to solve—but simply to be?
To feel the wind move through your ribs as it moves through the trees. To let the echoes of the past settle into silence. To hold love in your hands without needing to shape it. To let go of needing to be whole.
Because wholeness was never missing. It was only waiting for you to stop looking.