One (knowing or not) can plant seeds of hate in us. In our partiality they may spoil from love to mixed, mixed to hate. Grounded in their appeal to our righteousness, our hands transfigure these airy seeds into one lively enough for our protection. They become fuel to our complexes. They meld to our subconscious, growing into a forest of judgment.
Seeing our constant judgement—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. Seems we shade 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 assert they speak purely. You do not choose, do you? Vessel of the absolute, are you? You can hold it all then? You see so clearly! So all of this just comes to you? 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 choose the truths. You fill in their spectrums. We don’t do this all in isolation, though foolishly we’d like to believe. Institutions, seed planters, seem to layer our truths with gravity. Our natures and worlds, reapers and sowers, seem to selfishly and haphazardly enforce their laws.
I’m not denying a pure part of us, but our purity in distinguishing. l believe, perhaps I know, there is that in us which is rooted deeper. I believe in 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.
Seems often the ones who deny the beyond believe they are free actors, judging in a free world. They often denounce religion. Yet they still have their own gods, texts, demons. They cast judgment. They label others sins. They chase salvation. Beyond faith, are you? What a faithful one you are. Funny how universal these drives seem. Our trees grow from different seeds, but are shaped the same.
Seems our strongest saplings leave shadows of certainty. Their darkness makes me worried. How are we to 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 though, our blurred vision may cast a tragic fall as golden punishment.
We do not grow just alone. No, we are pulled by our producers; they make us rise. 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—true, good, and honest. They are the ones! Why aren’t the rest like us? Clown comedians know when it is time to laugh, and that others are too serious. Dogmatic churches judge alignment to their rigid customs as if they mirror the truths of the beyond. Materialist scientists know that their measuring measures all. They all are the ones connected, knowing that which 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.