The Road with no Destination

It was a cold autumn day when the traveler arrived. Not the blistering cold, that strips you of your senses as the little ones seek shelter from the harsh wind, but the type of cold that made you strip down and feel the brace of the breeze against your arms. It was a type of cold that forewarned a coming calmness, where everything died for a moment only to be reborn in greater glory. All around me were the coverings of my friends and relatives, aged a deep yellow. Many were in the process of stripping down, a perennial ritual that all must grow through on their path through life. Oh what senseless beauty, to just be lost in the moment, the changing of the seasons. Soon I must part with my senses, only to be reborn a moment later. But that time had not yet come, and it was the calm beforehand that I found most pleasurable. There was just something immensely satisfying about this cycle of death and rebirth, so very natural.

I felt the ground shake, and my limbs break under the weight of a steel clad boot. I felt no pain, no of course not, I only felt the determination and wanton rush with which the step was placed. As if the owner had but one last step to take in life, and that was their final act of defiance. He stood in front of me, at least I think it was a he. Sometimes it is very difficult to tell you all apart. The traveler was diminutive compared to a being such as myself, akin to the puffed up blackbird that sang to me when the rain had just fallen and the clouds were happy with relief, swelling with self-importance. They had long black fur around what looked to be their neck, just flapping in the wind. Around their torso they carried some black body that was of striking contrast to the skin on their face, with odd little whosiwhatsits keeping it all together. I still cannot recall the names of their garments and odds and ends, despite meeting so many travelers throughout my life. Of course they had on boots, those I were familiar with. How could I not be, for they had been the reason for the brown streak, the absence of the grass to the right of myself, a little pathway of small destruction.

I dreaded these travelers. They brought naught but destruction in their wake, in their hurry to be. They were never content with their lot in life, always rushing to be something greater than the sum of themselves. The river never contemplated if it was too windy, or if the gurgling it produced was too loud. The swelled-chest blackbird never worried about singing out of tune. The little ones never worried about malfeasance towards their elders, and whether the tone of their chattering would offend one another. Why then, I wondered, these travelers were so intent on hurrying through life, worrying about this and that and worrying about finding a partner or worrying about having their partner. It was all nonsense to one such as myself, as to me it seemed like they were searching for answers to questions that did not exist. Their self-importance was their flaw; they could not see their part in the cycle of life thinking it beneath them. What a trivial and bemusing way to live one’s life.

The traveler grew nearer, and became still. I knew not what went on their tiny little mind, but I was sure it was of no importance. With a heavy sigh, I heard the traveler speak. I could not decipher their language, for language is of no importance to me, but I could grasp their intent through the dancing of their limbs, and the feverishness of their tone. They knew not the way around me! How astonishing. I am big yes, and very mighty, but the answer is simple. To the left or to the right, it makes no difference for a path is a path just as the sun is the sun. To attempt to choose between the two, as if one was the right answer was ludicrous. Finally, after a long deliberation, the traveler made their choice. With a few mumblings they set off to the left of me, to explore the colorful meadow and feel the sunshine on their cheek. What a nice choice, though I would have said the same thing had they gone the opposite. The traveler I felt I would never see again, but that is ok. I hope they are happy with their choice of no importance, lost in their senseless worries about the after now and the before now.

In their language, I learned, those creatures were called “humans.” I found that odd, as how can you sum up their entire existence with one word? It seemed befuddling to me, where my language was one of sensations and feelings rather than sounds and symbols. I learned this knowledge from a blackbird, a very tired blackbird who had flown from the south to explore the world. They in turn learned it from the river, ceaselessly churning, who had in turn learned it from the whistling of the wind, who traveled everywhere and was always present. It seems to me that those “humans” have it all wrong. They deliberate and fuss over this and that throughout their brief life, entirely intent on being correct and forever wondering and regretting their lot in life. From the chattering of the world around me (the creatures of this earth are terrible gossips) I have gathered that they meet in encampments of stone and fire, to discuss the natures and musings of life that the worldly creatures already know. Oh how I wish I could communicate with them with more than just my actions, for they are stupid and oblivious to their surroundings. I would tell that traveler thus to quell his worrying: the road does not matter so much as the journey. Of course, I am but a humble oak tree, and my experience has been a slow and arduous one. I have learned to let my leaves fall, to let pieces die and to embrace the ever flowing river of changes. I have learned that now is all there is and all there will be, and that one cannot rush into now the same as one cannot rush a blooming flower or the structure of a songbird’s melody. And to me, that has made all the difference.