The tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts... (1 Viewer)

[Laron]

laron submitted a new article.

The tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts...
Hermann Karl Hesse (1877–1962) was a German-born poet, painter, and novelist. His best-known works include Steppenwolf, Demian, Siddhartha, and The Glass Bead Game, each of which explores an individual's search for authenticity, self-knowledge and spirituality. In 1946, he received the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Here is a quote from him based around trees.

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity;...
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[Sinera]

I've read Siddhartha a few years ago. It's about a man living at the time of the Gautama Buddha and who is also on the search for enlightenment. He actually does not take on Buddhism like so many others of the time (e.g. one of his best friends) but finds it by going along on his own path. It's not anti-Buddhist, but shows there are many paths available to us. Very interesting read indeed.

 

[Laron]

He actually does not take on Buddhism like so many others of the time (e.g. one of his best friends) but finds it by going along on his own path

That sounds a bit like my general direction once I fell more onto the path.

 

[Pod]

I think trees are the heroes of the forest because they cannot move away from harm and destruction. The older I get the closer to them I feel.

Thanks for this article Laron.

 

[Laron]

Thanks to Golmona for pointing it out to me!

 

[Snowmelt]

Trees are one of my favourite topics, and here is a poem I wrote circa 1980. (Siddhartha was one of the best reads of my younger life, too).

A TREE AS A MIRACLE
If it could speak
This wood could tell
A hundred stories.
For those who seek
The history of a tree,
There is immense vocabulary.

There are centuries of growing,
Which did not happen
Without pain,
Tales of sunny days,
Days of rain.
There is a warrior
In this slow grain.

Its lines are etched
And criss-crossed.
Yet unlike cane, this wood
Is not man-bent
But starved and stretched
And tossed by winds.

Huge forces in the sky
Pull the sapling
Through the dry days until,
Feet planted on the floor,
A giant tree sprays
Its shelter over all the earth.

The sap has supped
The juices from its bed,
And sipped the juices
Which are shed from laden clouds,
And crowds of birds
Have found a sanctuary
Within this tree.

This knob of wood,
This masonry of nature
Which has grown in stature
From a crude stalk
Shallowly veiled,
Corks the riches of the earth.

Within its leaves
A vitalizing process is at work.
This cranked and crooked body
Breathes the fallow air
That we declare
Unfit for breathing.

To pay our loss
The old tree gives back
Air as rich and supple
As the new green moss
Which grows around its feet.
Air charged as sweet
As drinking water.

We ought to pay the tree respect,
Instead, wrecked trunks
Of trees cut down
Adorn the outskirts
Of the town.

Leaves that once
Were green are brown.
Dead sticks, now good for fires,
Or bigger ones to hold up wires,
Can’t house animals.

The red wood bleeds away
Until the corpse is
Whiter than dried clay.
The singing in the leaves
Has stopped.
The wind can only play
With chopped branches.

For ten brief minutes
Some saw whirs.
And the tree is down.
Nothing stirs.
We have killed and spilled
A tree today.
Another miracle
Has swept away.