I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree. I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad. I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful. I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care. I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it. I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches. Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far. And yet, it obviously had been. I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree. I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.
The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt. I see shriveled blackened roots. So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust. However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances. Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive. I cannot and will not take that from any of them.
I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree. Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here. Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own. I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk. A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality. My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals. Here I am. Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.
With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball. The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care. All I know is I must protect this baby. I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it. I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch. I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.
I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core. I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil. I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed. I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability. Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home. Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.
prompt found at The Dig Tree
