One, knowing or not, can plant seeds of hate in us. In our partiality they may spoil from love to mixed, mixed to hate. Our hands transfigure these airy seeds into one worthy of our protection. They become fuel to our complexes. They plant themselves in our subconscious, growing into a forest of judgment.
Seeing our constant judgment—often covered in bursting roots—makes me want to scorn us (can’t see any irony in that!) We all wish to hold the scale. Looking at our trees I do wonder, how are we to trust their growth and descent? Seems we judge then we reason—shading in our intuitions with rationality. Yet why trust our intuition? Seems we can’t smell that which is spoiled—the sprouting of rotten seeds.
Some deny they color in their truths: they speak purely. You do not choose, do you? Vessel of the absolute, are you? You can hold it all? Do your eyes tell you the weight of your visions? You know which truths should rise and fall? This all seems reasonable to me! No, I am not being facetious.
This denial of discernment releases responsibility, handing it to truth. Liars. Cowards we all are. Truth, it may whisper. Yet you create the truth of truth. You fill in their spectrums. We don’t do this all in isolation, though foolishly we’d like to believe. Institutions, seed planters, layer our truths with gravity. Our natures and worlds, reapers and sowers, enforce their laws.
I’m not denying a pure part of us, but in distinguishing. Holding my doubt I still believe, perhaps I know; there is that in us which is rooted deeper, sourced beyond. I believe in rare quiet whispers that only souls know. A knowing stronger than a thousand inklings of intuition. Some rigidly deny the beyond—I notice some spirals amongst them.
Often the ones who deny the beyond believe they are free actors in a free world. They often denounce religion. Yet they still have their own gods, salvation, sins, texts, and demons. Beyond faith, are you? What a faithful one you are. Funny how universal these drives seem. Our trees are shaped the same yet grown by different seeds.
Even our youngest saplings cast shadows of certainty. Darkness leaves me worried. Wouldn’t it leave us stronger to cut through it? For how do we distinguish the fruitful against embellished emptiness? Wouldn’t the prettiest hate seduce us all? How do we know which leaves are and aren’t thorned? Perhaps you can watch actions, see if they descend (even in their rise). I worry, a tragic fall can look like golden punishment.
Our blindspots do not grow just alone. No, our producers cover them. They, institutions, obscure their creation of truth. They may mock, they may demonize. They may do both vulnerably. Laying over, then stabbing. Yet them as the saviors—good and honest. Why aren’t the rest like us? Clown comedians know when it is time to laugh. Dogmatic churches know their rigid customs mirror the truths of the beyond. Materialist scientists know their measuring measures all. They all are the ones connected—they know what matters now.
I just wish we could hold this: the truth grows in us with weak branches even if planted by pure sources. We should not whimper in our forests, but run through them. Do not deny that you are a growth; in you live the pits you disown.
This is not a call to be stuck in our limits, but to allow their knowing to grab you in full. Allow it to light up your forest, only then will your flowers flourish. They blossom in the acceptance of their beautiful vulnerability.