Majesty Of A Tree Quotes

A dragon has just flown over the tree-tops and lighted on the beach. Yes, I am afraid it is between us and the ship. And arrows are no use against dragons. And they're not at all afraid of fire." "With your Majesty's leave-" began Reepicheep. "No, Reepicheep," said the King very firmly, "you are not to attempt a single combat with it.

There's so much humanity in a love of trees, so much nostalgia for our first sense of wonder, so much power in just feeling our own insignificance when we are surrounded by nature…yes, that's it: just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty and our love for them teaches us how ridiculous we are - vile parasites squirming on the surface of the earth - and at the same time how deserving of life we can be, when we can honor this beauty that owes us nothing.

He has his good side and his bad side. Very dark indeed is his majesty when he wants to be. When he was young, he made a choice, like a tree does when it decides to grow one way or the other. He grew large and green until he shadowed over the whole forest, but most of his branches are twisted.

Creation is the eternal play of the Divine (Parabrahma, the Totality). You cannot adequately describe the majesty of a tree by talking about a flower, a branch or the bark. The source cannot be fully explained by describing its manifestations.

The forest is blanketed by the greenest ferns and moss and bonsai-like trees, a wild majesty that beckons hobbits and pixies and elves and dreamers.

Tree I dreamt you invisible majesty hovering above the face of all things. Rooted in the pain of ash, mere man, I bore you, sepulchre, dead father, silently, within, called out to you the windswept words of lost millennia, words that kindle rage. You never answered me. You left me fearing night, hidden fire, leaping flame, tree God in the night.

It is astonishing how ideas can change an experience. How we can be in a beautiful forest, on a hike through verdant beauty, but if someone told us that the forest was the site of a brutal massacre, the entire hike would be transformed. It would turn ominous and sad. Or if I was told the forest was where Walk Whitman had walked every morning before working on "Leaves of Grass," the place would take on a holy majesty. Same forest. Same trail and trees. But the idea layered on top of it mutates it, glorifies or damns it.

I must have wanton Poets, pleasant wits, Musitians, that with touching of a string May draw the pliant king which way I please: Musicke and poetrie is his delight, Therefore ile have Italian maskes by night, Sweete speeches, comedies, and pleasing showes, And in the day when he shall walke abroad, Like Sylvian Nimphes my pages shall be clad, My men like Satyres grazing on the lawnes, Shall with their Goate feete daunce an antick hay. Sometime a lovelie boye in Dians shape, With haire that gilds the water as it glides, Crownets of pearle about his naked armes, And in his sportfull hands an Olive tree, To hide those parts which men delight to see, Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by, One like Actaeon peeping through the grove, Shall by the angrie goddesse be transformde, And running in the likenes of an Hart, By yelping hounds puld downe, and seeme to die. Such things as these best please his majestie, My lord.

From my insufficiency to my perfection, and from my deviation to my equilibrium From my sublimity to my beauty, and from my splendor to my majesty From my scattering to my gathering, and from my rejection to my communion From my baseness to my preciousness, and from my stones to my pearls From my rising to my setting, and from my days to my nights From my luminosity to my darkness, and from my guidance to my straying From my perigee to my apogee, and from the base of my lance to its tip From my waxing to my waning, and from the void of my moon to its crescent From my pursuit to my flight, and from my steed to my gazelle From my breeze to my boughs, and from my boughs to my shade From my shade to my delight, and from my delight to my torment From my torment to my likeness, and from my likeness to my impossibility From my impossibility to my validity, and from my validity to my deficiency. I am no one in existence but myself,

If this was the world as the god-or gods-had made it, then mortal man, this mortal man, could acknowledge that and honour the power and infinite majesty that lay within it, but he would not say it was right, or bow down as if he were only dust or a brittle leaf blown from and autumn tree, helpless in the wind.

Houses, housetops, like human beings have wonderful character. The lives of housetops. The wear of the seasons. The country is beautiful, young, growing things. The majesty of trees. The backs of tenement houses are living documents.

Children see God every day; they just don't call it that. It's the summer sky painted with cumulus clouds by day and sequined with a million stars by night. It's the sweet whispers of sweet gum trees and the sounds riding the tops of honeysuckle-scented breezes. Children feel God stuffed into brown fluffy dogs with stitches strong enough to withstand a good squeeze, and on the lips of round women who can't get enough sugar from Chocolate. I began to believe that God is us and nature, beauty and love, mystery and majesty, everything right and good.

Just now, high above the chaos of Sarantium, it seemed as if there were so many things he wanted to honour or exalt- or take to task, if it came to that, for there was no need for, no justice in, children dying of plague, or young girls being cut into pieces in the forest, or sold in grief for winter grain. If this was the world as the god- or gods- had made it, then mortal man, this mortal man, could acknowledge that and honour the power and infinite majesty that lay within it, but he would not say that it was right, or bow down as if he were only dust or a brittle leaf blown from an autumn tree, helpless in the wind. He might be, all men and women might be as helpless as that leaf, but he would not admit it, and he would do something here on the dome that said- or aspired to say- these things, and more.

When she had arranged her household affairs, she came to the library and bade me follow her. Then, with the mirror still swinging against her knees, she led me through the garden and the wilderness down to a misty wood. It being autumn, the trees were tinted gloriously in dusky bars of colouring. The rowan, with his amber leaves and scarlet berries, stood before the brown black-spotted sycamore; the silver beech flaunted his golden coins against my poverty; firs, green and fawn-hued, slumbered in hazy gossamer. No bird carolled, although the sun was hot. Marina noted the absence of sound, and without prelude of any kind began to sing from the ballad of the Witch Mother: about the nine enchanted knots, and the trouble-comb in the lady's knotted hair, and the master-kid that ran beneath her couch. Every drop of my blood froze in dread, for whilst she sang her face took on the majesty of one who traffics with infernal powers. As the shade of the trees fell over her, and we passed intermittently out of the light, I saw that her eyes glittered like rings of sapphires. ("The Basilisk")

What was that sound? That rustling noise? It could be heard in the icy North, where there was not one leaf left upon one tree, it could be heard in the South, where the crinoline skirts lay deep in the mothballs, as still and quiet as wool. It could be heard from sea to shining sea, o'er purple mountains' majesty and upon the fruited plain. What was it? Why, it was the rustle of thousands of bags of potato chips being pulled from supermarket racks; it was the rustle of plastic bags being filled with beer and soda pop and quarts of hard liquor; it was the rustle of newspaper pages fanning as readers turned eagerly to the sports section; it was the rustle of currency changing hands as tickets were scalped for forty times their face value and two hundred and seventy million dollars were waged upon one or the other of two professional football teams. It was the rustle of Super Bowl week...

Ead sat up as best she could, conscious of her sweat-soaked shift and the sour taste in her mouth. ”Ead," Sabran said, looking her over. A flush touched her cheeks. “I see you are at last awake. You have been absent from my lodgings for too long.” ”Forgive me, Your Majesty.” ”Your generosity has been missed.

When the Path Is Blocked When the path is blocked, back up and see more of the way. We are each a mountain for the other to climb, and often our path to love is interrupted by a mishap or a problem or something unexpected that needs attending. We tend to call these unexpected things in life “obstacles.” Often the thing in the way comes from another person: a stubbornness falls like a tree blocking where we want to go, or a sadness comes like a flash flood to muddy the road between us, or just as we go to rest in the clearing we have prepared, we are bitten by something hiding in the undergrowth. Thus, in daily ways, we have this constant choice: to see each other as the stubborn, muddy, biting thing that blocks our way, or to back up and take in the whole person as we would a mountain in its entirety, dizzy when looking up into its majesty. When we are blocked in our closeness with another, we have this constant opportunity: to raise our eyes and behold each other completely, then to kneel and lift the fallen tree, or cross the flooded path, or pluck and toss the biting thing. We have the chance to keep climbing, so we might cup the water that runs from each other, so we might quench our thirst as from a mountain stream, knowing that love like water comes softly through the hardest places.

ONCE UPON A time there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. As he grew old, he began to wonder which should inherit the kingdom, since none had married and he had no heir. The king decided to ask his daughters to demonstrate their love for him. To the eldest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him as much as all the treasure in the kingdom. To the middle princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him with the strength of iron. To the youngest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” This youngest princess thought for a long time before answering. Finally she said she loved him as meat loves salt. “Then you do not love me at all,” the king said. He threw his daughter from the castle and had the bridge drawn up behind her so that she could not return. Now, this youngest princess goes into the forest with not so much as a coat or a loaf of bread. She wanders through a hard winter, taking shelter beneath trees. She arrives at an inn and gets hired as assistant to the cook. As the days and weeks go by, the princess learns the ways of the kitchen. Eventually she surpasses her employer in skill and her food is known throughout the land. Years pass, and the eldest princess comes to be married. For the festivities, the cook from the inn makes the wedding meal. Finally a large roast pig is served. It is the king’s favorite dish, but this time it has been cooked with no salt. The king tastes it. Tastes it again. “Who would dare to serve such an ill-cooked roast at the future queen’s wedding?” he cries. The princess-cook appears before her father, but she is so changed he does not recognize her. “I would not serve you salt, Your Majesty,” she explains. “For did you not exile your youngest daughter for saying that it was of value?” At her words, the king realizes that not only is she his daughter—she is, in fact, the daughter who loves him best. And what then? The eldest daughter and the middle sister have been living with the king all this time. One has been in favor one week, the other the next. They have been driven apart by their father’s constant comparisons. Now the youngest has returned, the king yanks the kingdom from his eldest, who has just been married. She is not to be queen after all. The elder sisters rage. At first, the youngest basks in fatherly love. Before long, however, she realizes the king is demented and power-mad. She is to be queen, but she is also stuck tending to a crazy old tyrant for the rest of her days. She will not leave him, no matter how sick he becomes. Does she stay because she loves him as meat loves salt? Or does she stay because he has now promised her the kingdom? It is hard for her to tell the difference.

A wise man can do no better than to turn from the churches and look up through the airy majesty of the wayside trees with exultation, with resignation, at the unconquerable, unimplicated sun.

Oh trees of life, when will your winter come? We're not in tune. Not like migratory birds. Outmoded, late, in haste, we force ourselves on winds which let us down upon indifferent ponds. Though we've had to learn how flowering is fading, somewhere lions still roam, unaware, in their majesty, of any weakness. — Rainer Maria Rilke, from the “Fourth Elegy,” Duino Elegies. Trans. by David Young. (W. W. Norton & Company; 1 edition, June 17, 2006) Originally published 1923.

This afternoon, being on Fair Haven Hill, I heard the sound of a saw, and soon after from the Cliff saw two men sawing down a noble pine beneath, about forty rods off. I resolved to watch it till it fell, the last of a dozen or more which were left when the forest was cut and for fifteen years have waved in solitary majesty over the sprout-land. I saw them like beavers or insects gnawing at the trunk of this noble tree, the diminutive manikins with their cross-cut saw which could scarcely span it. It towered up a hundred feet as I afterward found by measurement, one of the tallest probably in the township and straight as an arrow, but slanting a little toward the hillside, its top seen against the frozen river and the hills of Conantum. I watch closely to see when it begins to move. Now the sawers stop, and with an axe open it a little on the side toward which it leans, that it may break the faster. And now their saw goes again. Now surely it is going; it is inclined one quarter of the quadrant, and, breathless, I expect its crashing fall. But no, I was mistaken; it has not moved an inch; it stands at the same angle as at first. It is fifteen minutes yet to its fall. Still its branches wave in the wind, as it were destined to stand for a century, and the wind soughs through its needles as of yore; it is still a forest tree, the most majestic tree that waves over Musketaquid. The silvery sheen of the sunlight is reflected from its needles; it still affords an inaccessible crotch for the squirrel’s nest; not a lichen has forsaken its mast-like stem, its raking mast,—the hill is the hulk. Now, now’s the moment! The manikins at its base are fleeing from their crime. They have dropped the guilty saw and axe. How slowly and majestic it starts! as it were only swayed by a summer breeze, and would return without a sigh to its location in the air. And now it fans the hillside with its fall, and it lies down to its bed in the valley, from which it is never to rise, as softly as a feather, folding its green mantle about it like a warrior, as if, tired of standing, it embraced the earth with silent joy, returning its elements to the dust again. But hark! there you only saw, but did not hear. There now comes up a deafening crash to these rocks , advertising you that even trees do not die without a groan. It rushes to embrace the earth, and mingle its elements with the dust. And now all is still once more and forever, both to eye and ear. I went down and measured it. It was about four feet in diameter where it was sawed, about one hundred feet long. Before I had reached it the axemen had already divested it of its branches. Its gracefully spreading top was a perfect wreck on the hillside as if it had been made of glass, and the tender cones of one year’s growth upon its summit appealed in vain and too late to the mercy of the chopper. Already he has measured it with his axe, and marked off the mill-logs it will make. And the space it occupied in upper air is vacant for the next two centuries. It is lumber. He has laid waste the air. When the fish hawk in the spring revisits the banks of the Musketaquid, he will circle in vain to find his accustomed perch, and the hen-hawk will mourn for the pines lofty enough to protect her brood. A plant which it has taken two centuries to perfect, rising by slow stages into the heavens, has this afternoon ceased to exist. Its sapling top had expanded to this January thaw as the forerunner of summers to come. Why does not the village bell sound a knell? I hear no knell tolled. I see no procession of mourners in the streets, or the woodland aisles. The squirrel has leaped to another tree; the hawk has circled further off, and has now settled upon a new eyrie, but the woodman is preparing [to] lay his axe at the root of that also.

If we come to love nature not only when it is rare and beautiful, but also when it is commonplace and even annoying, I believe it will heal the great wound of our species: our self-imposed isolation from the rest of life, our loneliness for nature. We might remember that we are no different from our surroundings, that the trees and birds are as much our neighbors as other humans. We might remember that before the land belonged to us, we belonged to it. We could belong again.

He turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas Marner sat lulling the child. She was perfectly quiet now, but not asleep—only soothed by sweet porridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel a certain awe in the presence of a little child, such as we feel before some quiet majesty or beauty in the earth or sky—before a steady glowing planet, or a full-flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a silent pathway.

I have a fantasy about being the kind of father who notices on his commute that the chestnuts on a nearby tree are ripe and brings home an armful to roast--the kind of person who is able to gather up richness where others see nothing worth noting.

That’s God,” he said. “He goes by many names, many faces, but God is simply that—love. I find God in this church, in the faces of my parishioners. One man may find it in nature, in the majesty of a tree or a river,” he said and then looked directly at Simon. “Or another man may find it in a woman’s smile. Wherever it’s to be found, it’s to be cherished. When you find it, you hold onto it and nothing, no force, no evil can take it from you. It’s yours forever. And that, my dear, is something very powerful.

Dreagan is Scotland," Asher said. "The land draws you in a way you can no' begin to understand. You feel the majesty and magic of the ancient land. From the tallest mountain to the lowest valley, in the leaves of the trees and in the currents of the streams, you feel an overwhelming and unshakable need to want to be a part of such a place. To want to belong. It doesn't confine you. Instead, it cradles you, offering its beauty and solitude for those who answer its call. It's wild and free. It's fierce and unbreakable. It's home.

Much as the sweeping canopy of the oak draws its vitality and luster from its roots, majesty draws its power from the hidden things that both feed it and inspire it. Therefore, we would be wise to attend to the hidden things as without them majesty might venture into a forest, but it will never grow one.

Ead sat up as best she could, conscious of her sweat-soaked shift and the sour taste in her mouth. “Ead,” Sabran said, looking her over. A flush touched her cheeks. “I see you are at last awake. You have been absent from my lodgings for too long.” “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” “Your generosity has been missed.

You two love each other?” “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “And you believe in that. You believe in your love for each other?” Elizabeth nodded. “That’s God,” he said. “He goes by many names, many faces, but God is simply that—love. I find God in this church, in the faces of my parishioners. One man may find it in nature, in the majesty of a tree or a river,” he said and then looked directly at Simon. “Or another man may find it in a woman’s smile. Wherever it’s to be found, it’s to be cherished. When you find it, you hold onto it and nothing, no force, no evil can take it from you. It’s yours forever. And that, my dear, is something very powerful.

Can you have forgotten that funny old Lilygloves, the chief mole, leaning on his spade and saying, ‘Believe me, your Majesty, you’ll be glad of these fruit trees one day.’ And by Jove he was right.” “I do! I do!” said Lucy, and clapped her hands. “But look here, Peter,” said Edmund. “This must be all rot. To begin with, we didn’t plant the orchard slap up against the gate. We wouldn’t have been such fools.

Bonsai is a way of life, and the joy derived from it should always be for today, and for anyone at any age, whether already involved with it or whether considering the prospect. Planting the seed of a tree in a pot or contemplating the majesty of a mature Bonsai is immaterial; both evoke a sense of joy at any given moment in time. That moment, when it is experienced, will be in the present, and that is, today!

Running beer gathers no froth. No haste, gentlemen. Let us mingle majesty with the feast. Let us eat with meditation; let us make haste slowly. Let us not hurry. Consider the springtime; if it makes haste, it is done for; that is to say, it gets frozen. Excess of zeal ruins peach-trees and apricot-trees. Excess of zeal kills the grace and the mirth of good dinners. No zeal, gentlemen! Grimod de la Reynière agrees with Talleyrand.

We must all show great constancy,” Caspian was saying. “A dragon has just flown over the tree-tops and lighted on the beach. Yes, I am afraid it is between us and the ship. And arrows are no use against dragons. And they’re not at all afraid of fire.” “With your Majesty’s leave--” began Reepicheep. “No, Reepicheep,” said the King very firmly, “you are not to attempt a single combat with it. And unless you promise to obey me in this matter I’ll have you tied up.

We must all show great constancy,” Caspian was saying. “A dragon has just flown over the tree-tops and lighted on the beach. Yes, I am afraid it is between us and the ship. And arrows are no use against dragons. And they’re not at all afraid of fire.” “With your Majesty’s leave--” began Reepicheep. “No, Reepicheep,” said the King very firmly, “you are not to attempt a single combat with it. And unless you promise to obey me in this matter I’ll have you tied up. We must just keep close watch and, as soon as it is light, go down to the beach and give it battle. I will lead. King Edmund will be on my right and the Lord Drinian on my left. There are no other arrangements to be made. It will be light in a couple of hours. In an hour’s time let a meal be served out and what is left of the wine. And let everything be done silently.” “Perhaps it will go away,” said Lucy. “It’ll be worse if it does,” said Edmund, “because then we shan’t know where it is. If there’s a wasp in the room I like to be able to see it.

Song This is the love I bring, Absolute and nothing: A tree but with no roots, A cloud heavy with fruit, A wide stone stair That leads nowhere But to empty sky, Ambiguous majesty. This is the love I bear: It is light as air, Yet weighs like an earth; It is water flowing, Yet adamant as fire. It is coming from going. It is dying and growing. A love so rare and hard It cuts a diamond word Upon the windowpane, "Never, never again, Never upon my breast," Having no time to bring, Having no place to rest, Absolute and nothing.

The jungle, the terrible, devastating, impulsive jungle, is like man's life. For years, it patiently nurses the majesty of its trees, and alongside that majesty, the very source of its own destruction. And so comes the day on which all that majesty falls back down to the earth and returns to dust and ash—and not by chance, but from that very devastating seed of destruction, that majesty created by the jungle itself. So is man, so was I, like the jungle: I destroyed my majesty; I, with the very hands with which I am writing these words, cast my monumental dreams to the ground.

None of the ginkgo's aesthetic qualities are all that different from those of other trees. I could just as easily wax poetic about the beauty of beech trees, or the majesty of ancient sugar pines. But I think that ginkgos are just unusual enough for the occasional human to take notice of them. It's not that any particular tree or breed of dog or varietal or rose is objectively superior to its peers, they just happen to be the creatures that momentarily capture our flickering attention. As soon as humans take open-hearted notice of anything in the natural world, we find reason to love it.

It was an irony---and perhaps, even, a foreshadowing---that she had been struck especially by the majesty of the house that long-ago day. It had looked to ten-year-old Jess like something from a fairy tale, standing tall with its gleaming weatherboards and elaborate tangle of wisteria branches. The longest boughs of the tallest trees arched together to form a proscenium around the house at center stage, the sweep of green leaves fell away on all sides, and the round pond was just visible on the western slope, with its glossy lily pads and graceful stone statue. The effect was of a place set apart from the rest of the big wide world.

It is a resurrection to spiritual life wherein power is given to the just over the heaven of his soul and the earth of his body, it is a constant reverence towards God by which we stand in holy fear before him, it is a tree bearing roses of virtues, it is the kingdom of God which we must gain by violence and by art, for we have it within us and daily pray for it, it is a royal priesthood by which, having the mastery over ourselves, we may offer ourselves to God. It is a silence in the heaven of our soul, though brief, and not lasting as the devout man desires; it is a service that we render to God alone, adoring solely his Majesty; it is a seat we hold ready for him that he may stay in our interior house; it is a tent for the wanderer in the desert; it is a strong watch-tower of our defense, from which we must keep guard on heavenly matters, and a golden vessel for the manna in the ark of our heart;

After I'd had a chance to think about it for a while I began to understand why I felt this sudden joy when Kakuro was talking about the birch trees. I get the same feeling when anyone talks about trees, any trees: the linden tree in the farmyard, the oak behind the old barn, the stately elms that have all disappeared now, the pine trees along the windswept coasts, etc. There's so much humanity in a love of trees, so much nostalgia for our first sense of wonder, so much power in just feeling our own insignificance when we are surrounded by nature . . . [sic] yes, that's it: just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty and our love for love teaches us how ridiculous we are--vile parasites squirming on the surface of the earth--and at the same time how deserving of life we can be, when we honor this beauty that owes us nothing. Kakuro was talking about birch trees and, forgetting all those psychoanalysts and intelligent people who don't know what to do with their intelligence, I suddenly felt my spirit expand, for I was capable of grasping the utter beauty of the trees.

We, therefore, pray to the most kind Father through you, his only-begotten Son, who for us became man, was crucified and glorified, that he send us out of his treasures the Spirit of sevenfold grace who rested upon you in all fullness: the Spirit, I say, of WISDOM, that we may taste the life-giving flavors of the fruit of the tree of life, which you truly are; the gift also of UNDERSTANDING, by which the intentions of our mind are illumined; the gift of COUNSEL, by which we may follow in your footsteps on the right paths; the gift of FORTITUDE, by which we may be able to weaken the violence of our enemies’ attacks; the gift of KNOWLEDGE, by which we may be filled with the brilliant light of your sacred teaching to distinguish good and evil; the gift of PIETY, by which we may acqire a merciful heart; the gift of FEAR, by which we may draw away from all evil and be set at peace by submitting in awe to your eternal majesty. for you have wished that we ask for these things in that sacred prayer which you have taught us; and now we ask to obtain them, through your cross, for the praise of your most holy name. to you, with the Father and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, thanksgiving, beauty and power, forever and ever. Amen. -From Prayer “To Obtain the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit” included at the closing The Tree of Life

Apples, heigh-ho,” said Trumpkin with a rueful grin. “I must say you ancient kings and queens don’t overfeed your courtiers!” They stood up and shook themselves and looked about. The trees were thick and they could see no more than a few yards in any direction. “I suppose your Majesties know the way all right?” said the Dwarf. “I don’t,” said Susan. “I’ve never seen these woods in my life before. In fact I thought all along that we ought to have gone by the river.” “Then I think you might have said so at the time,” answered Peter, with pardonable sharpness. “Oh, don’t take any notice of her,” said Edmund. “She always is a wet blanket. You’ve got that pocket compass of yours, Peter, haven’t you? Well, then, we’re as right as rain. We’ve only got to keep on going northwest--cross that little river, the what-do-you-call-it?--the Rush--” “I know,” said Peter. “The one that joins the big river at the Fords of Beruna, or Beruna’s Bridge, as the D.L.F. calls it.” “That’s right. Cross it and strike uphill, and we’ll be at the Stone Table (Aslan’s How, I mean) by eight or nine o’clock. I hope King Caspian will give us a good breakfast!” “I hope you’re right,” said Susan. “I can’t remember all that at all.” “That’s the worst of girls,” said Edmund to Peter and the Dwarf. “They never carry a map in their heads.” “That’s because our heads have something inside them,” said Lucy.

Majesty, A frozen swamp. Icicles on branches and uprooted trees. That was our crystal palace, once upon a time. I was your king and you were my queen. I promised you I’d always try to give you your desires. I meant that. And since you wanted Derek, I tried to get him for you. I tried to get Derek to see how beautiful, sweet and amazing you are, in spite of myself, in spite of my rending heart. He never saw you the way I did, and you never saw me at all. I thought maybe if I found love with someone else, I’d be rid of my feelings for you, but that empty relationship only made me long for you more. I’ve offered you the most support and devotion a person can give an unwanting heart, but all I get in return are your mocking advances, which blatantly scream and reiterate the fact that you’ll never love me. It’s been so excruciating to be around you lately. You’re always teasing me, and it kills me. That’s why I’ve been so irritable and angry. It’s inconceivable to me how you could think I’d EVER hurt you, when all I’ve been living for is to try and make you happy. Well, I’m done. Your doubt has caused me more pain than anything I’ve ever known. I always thought we’d be life-long friends, but this fairytale has no happy ending. The crystal has shattered. I can’t be your king anymore. Then again, I never really was. I’ve always been the lowly jester. And everyone knows a fool can never be with a queen. Goodbye, Alec

I love Africa....... Each day each breath, she consumes me. I have never changed so much In such a short time Each day I feel more part of her. Her colour, smell, her smiles , the ever changing landscapes. Vast deserts rolling hills plaines & Mountains. Her beauty and her majesty. Like sweet wine flowing through my veins, my heart sings as I wave to all those faces going by. Back home to my Grandmothers Birth place. They said “welcome home”, those village boys. How did they know? You all said I would cry, I thought no, but yes I often do. Not for their pain but for their happiness . I cry now, together hearts will sing ,” I love Africa”. See her now as I write.. Kilimanjaro , it doesn’t get much better .Tears on a hard mans face. There is no time but now , no words just peace. Thousands of smiling faces, the mass of souls are singing out . Yes I see and feel it now.... In those trees I sense the Spirits of our saving , could it be our looking for? Sailing ships a familiar shore, now I’m crying happy and singing . Thoughts intense of please no more. I love Africa. An epiphany I can’t explain .Not like the ancient rituals , sound of rain, and men together by campfires. Beginning to end but there really is no such thing as time, just imaginings. We still love sitting by the camp fire and we love listening to the rain? I love Africa the Eden and our Birthplace , Man. How can I explain to you my friend what I have seen and felt unless you too have seen it all ... Africa. Michael Burke.

Did they sound like humans from their footsteps?” “I didn’t hear any noise of feet--only voices and this frightful thudding and thumping--like a mallet.” “I wonder,” said Reepicheep, “do they become visible when you drive a sword into them?” “It looks as if we shall find out,” said Caspian. “But let’s get out of this gateway. There’s one of these gentry at that pump listening to all we say.” They came out and went back on to the path where the trees might possibly make them less conspicuous. “Not that it’s any good really,” said Eustace, “trying to hide from people you can’t see. They may be all round us.” “Now, Drinian,” said Caspian. “How would it be if we gave up the boat for lost, went down to another part of the bay, and signaled to the Dawn Treader to stand in and take us aboard?” “Not depth for her, Sire,” said Drinian. “We could swim,” said Lucy. “Your Majesties all,” said Reepicheep, “hear me. It is folly to think of avoiding an invisible enemy by any amount of creeping and skulking. If these creatures mean to bring us to battle, be sure they will succeed. And whatever comes of it I’d sooner meet them face to face than be caught by the tail.” “I really think Reep is in the right this time,” said Edmund. “Surely,” said Lucy, “if Rhince and the others on the Dawn Treader see us fighting on the shore they’ll be able to do something.” “But they won’t see us fighting if they can’t see any enemy,” said Eustace miserably. “They’ll think we’re just swinging our swords in the air for fun.

David's Song of Thanks     8  f Oh give thanks to the LORD;  g call upon his name;          h make known his deeds among the peoples!     9 Sing to him, sing praises to him;         tell of all his wondrous works!     10 Glory in his holy name;         let the hearts of those who seek the LORD rejoice!     11  i Seek the LORD and his strength;         seek his presence continually!     12  j Remember the wondrous works that he has done,          k his miracles and the judgments he uttered,     13 O offspring of Israel his servant,         children of Jacob, his chosen ones!     14 He is the LORD our God;          l his judgments are in all the earth.     15 Remember his covenant forever,         the word that he commanded, for a thousand generations,     16 the covenant  m that he made with Abraham,         his sworn promise to Isaac,     17 which  n he confirmed to Jacob as a statute,         to Israel as an everlasting covenant,     18 saying,  o “To you I will give the land of Canaan,         as your portion for an inheritance.”     19 When you were  p few in number,         of little account, and  q sojourners in it,     20 wandering from nation to nation,         from one kingdom to another people,     21 he allowed no one to oppress them;         he  r rebuked kings on their account,     22 saying, “Touch not my anointed ones,         do my  s prophets no harm!”     23  t Sing to the LORD, all the earth!         Tell of his salvation from day to day.     24 Declare his glory among the nations,         his marvelous works among all the peoples!     25 For  u great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised,         and he is to be feared  v above all gods.     26 For all the gods of the peoples are worthless idols,          w but the LORD made the heavens.     27 Splendor and majesty are before him;         strength and joy are in his place.     28 Ascribe to the LORD, O families of the peoples,          x ascribe to the LORD glory and strength!     29 Ascribe to the LORD the glory due his name;         bring an offering and come before him!      y Worship the LORD in the splendor of holiness; [2]         30 tremble before him, all the earth;         yes, the world is established; it shall never be moved.     31  z Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice,         and let them say among the nations,  a “The LORD reigns!”     32  b Let the sea roar, and all that fills it;         let the field exult, and everything in it!     33 Then shall the trees of the forest sing for joy         before the LORD, for he comes to judge the earth.     34 Oh give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;         for his steadfast love endures forever! 35 c Say also:     “Save us, O God of our salvation,         and gather and deliver us from among the nations,     that we may give thanks to your holy name         and glory in your praise.     36  d Blessed be the LORD, the God of Israel,         from everlasting to everlasting!”  e Then all the people said, “Amen!” and praised the LORD.

The Son of God dies in splendor and majesty, not in defeat and loss. The crucifixion event covers about six hours. During those six hours, the gospel writers capture a series of seven sayings of Christ from the tree of death—sometimes referred to as the Seven Last Words. The first three statements are horizontal in nature, describing Christ’s conclusion of His dealings with mankind. They are characterized by: Forgiveness: “Jesus was saying, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing’” (Luke 23:34). Redemption: “He said to [the thief on the cross], ‘Truly I say to you, today you shall be with Me in Paradise’” (23:43). Compassion: “When Jesus then saw His mother, and the disciple whom He loved standing nearby, He said to His mother, ‘Woman, behold, your son!’ Then He said to the disciple, ‘Behold, your mother!’ From that hour the disciple took her into his own household” (John 19:26-27). * Even in the middle of His pain and anguish, Jesus took the time to perform the duty of the oldest son in caring for His mother. Having cared for those around Him,* the Savior turned His attention heavenward and to the ultimate task at hand. His final four statements engage His Father in the redemptive act that is occurring on the cross of Calvary. These statements express the spiritual aspects of Christ’s work as He progresses through these stages: Abandonment: “About the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, ‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?’ that is, ‘My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?’” (Matthew 27:46). Readiness: “After this, Jesus, knowing that all things had already been accomplished, to fulfill the Scripture, said, ‘I am thirsty’” (John 19:28). Fulfillment: “Therefore when Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, ‘It is finished!’ And He bowed His head and gave up His spirit” (John 19:30). Release: “Jesus, crying out with a loud voice, said, ‘Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.’ Having said this, He breathed His last” (Luke 23:46). The charge that was placed above His head read: “this is Jesus the King of the Jews” (Matthew 27:37). Everything about His crucifixion spoke of His true majesty, not only as the King of the Jews but also as the King of kings.

Pigs eat acorns, but neither consider the sun that gave them life, nor the influence of the heavens by which they were nourished, nor the very root of the tree from whence they came. Thomas Traherne Your enjoyment of the world is never right till every morning you awake in Heaven; see yourself in your Father’s palace; and look upon the skies, the earth and the air as celestial joys; having such a reverend esteem of all, as if you were among the Angels. The bride of a monarch, in her husband’s chamber, hath no such causes of delight as you. You never enjoy the world aright till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens and crowned with the stars; and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world, and more than so, because men are in it who are every one sole heirs as well as you. Till you can sing and rejoice and delight in God, as misers do in gold, and kings in sceptres, you can never enjoy the world. Till your spirit filleth the whole world, and the stars are your jewels; till you are as familiar with the ways of God in all ages as with your walk and table; till you are intimately acquainted with that shady nothing out of which the world was made; till you love men so as to desire their happiness with a thirst equal to the zeal of your own; till you delight in God for being good to all; you never enjoy the world. Till you more feel it than your private estate, and are more present in the hemisphere, considering the glories and the beauties there, than in your own house; till you remember how lately you were made, and how wonderful it was when you came into it; and more rejoice in the palace of your glory than if it had been made today morning. Yet further, you never enjoyed the world aright, till you so love the beauty of enjoying it, that you are covetous and earnest to persuade others to enjoy it. And so perfectly hate the abominable corruption of men in despising it that you had rather suffer the flames of hell than willingly be guilty of their error. The world is a mirror of Infinite Beauty, yet no man sees it. It is a Temple of Majesty, yet no man regards it. It is a region of Light and Peace, did not men disquiet it. It is the Paradise of God. It is more to man since he is fallen than it was before. It is the place of Angels and the Gate of Heaven. When Jacob waked out of his dream, he said, God is here, and I wist it not. How dreadful is this place! This is none other than the House of God and the Gate of Heaven. Thomas Traherne

Dreys are a perfect example of the unseen city: Even if you think you’ve never seen them before, you probably have—anywhere there are squirrels, there are dreys, hiding in plain sight. But they are easy to miss because they look so messy, like a mass of leaves lodged high in the tree. But masses of leaves don’t just lodge in trees. That takes intention.

The Mountain of the Lord 4 In the last days the mountain of the Lord’s temple will be established as the highest of the mountains; it will be exalted above the hills, and peoples will stream to it. 2 Many nations will come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the temple of the God of Jacob. He will teach us his ways, so that we may walk in his paths.” The law will go out from Zion, the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. 3 He will judge between many peoples and will settle disputes for strong nations far and wide. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore. 4 Everyone will sit under their own vine and under their own fig tree, and no one will make them afraid, for the Lord Almighty has spoken. 5 All the nations may walk in the name of their gods, but we will walk in the name of the Lord our God for ever and ever. The Lord’s Plan 6 “In that day,” declares the Lord, “I will gather the lame; I will assemble the exiles and those I have brought to grief. 7 I will make the lame my remnant, those driven away a strong nation. The Lord will rule over them in Mount Zion from that day and forever. 8 As for you, watchtower of the flock, stronghold[a] of Daughter Zion, the former dominion will be restored to you; kingship will come to Daughter Jerusalem.” A Promised Ruler From Bethlehem 5 [a]Marshal your troops now, city of troops, for a siege is laid against us. They will strike Israel’s ruler on the cheek with a rod. 2 “But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are small among the clans[b] of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times.” 3 Therefore Israel will be abandoned until the time when she who is in labor bears a son, and the rest of his brothers return to join the Israelites. 4 He will stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God. And they will live securely, for then his greatness will reach to the ends of the earth. 5 And he will be our peace

Life is that which is discontent, which struggles and seeks, which suffers and creates. No mechanistic account or materialistic philosophy can do it justice, or understand the silent growth and majesty of a tree, or compass the longing and laughter of children.

Fuck / Our Future When our scorching planet ignites the last evacuating airship to cook its soft cargo of human flesh in an expanding fireball and fragments of its propeller blades thunk inches deep into tree trunks in the straggling forest beneath / What I want to know is which will survive / which strain / which wood grain will hold encoded / like a fingerprint pushed into wet clay / that final day of reckoning when this cerulean blue ordained world we have corroded a toxic grey / begins its self-reclamation starting with that tree / a lone lieutenant / a desperate sentinel / erect / through the falling ball of fire / het fuel and smouldering meat / its face of leaves weighed with dust / its waist of branches noosed in plastic bags / yet standing stubborn in its shaggy majesty / admist the ship’s carnage / like a righteous middle finger thrust at all humanity / proud in the snarling sky

The poem "Fuck / Our Future" (p. 49): When our scorching planet ignites the last evacuating airship to cook its soft cargo of human flesh in an expanding fireball and fragments of its propeller blades thunk inches deep into tree trunks in the straggling forest beneath / What I want to know is which will survive / which strain / which wood grain will hold encoded / like a fingerprint pushed into wet clay / that final day of reckoning when this cerulean blue ordained world we have corroded a toxic grey / begins its self-reclamation starting with that tree / a lone lieutenant / a desperate sentinel / erect / through the falling ball of fire / jet fuel and smouldering meat / its face of leaves weighed with dust / its waist of branches noosed in plastic bags / yet standing stubborn in its shaggy majesty / amidst the ship’s carnage / like a righteous middle finger thrust at all humanity / proud in the snarling sky

convergent evolution: a strikingly similar trait that arose independently in different branches of the tree of life. As milk scientist Katie Hinde has written on her blog, Mammels Suck: “The production of milk independently arose after the divergence of avian and mammalian lineages over 300 million years ago. However, these milks seemingly serve the same function: body-nourishing, bacteria-inoculating, immune-programming substances produced by parents specifically to support offspring development.” Milk, in other words, is so useful that evolution created it twice.

I wonder how mankind would fare, should some cosmic disaster blast our civilization into forgotten rubble. Perhaps we would return to the trees and caves of our bestial ancestors--skulking apemen that a mad creator's folly transformed into men--and not even legend would remember the dead majesty of our race.

She’s awful, Sid. I’ve never seen somebody so caught up in their own majesty. She was five years old and already stomping about giving me orders, and running off to my father to tell tales on me. When we got older she started writing all these nasty little things in her diary about me, and hiding it under a tree like some sort of deranged squirrel when she thought I wasn’t looking.

As pigeons were making their descent from bird of the aristocracy to bird of poverty, the native American passenger pigeon was going extinct. The paved habitat that allowed pigeons to spread was replacing the forest habitat that had supported passenger pigeons. We traded a bird of the trees for a bird of the city. Feral

Consider Jesus’s genealogy in Matthew 1:1–17. In the ancient world, genealogies determined a person’s status—whether you came from an honorable family or a shameful one. A person’s family line says something about that person. Their character, their social status, the types of people they would hang out with. And Jesus’s genealogy says one thing loud and clear: Jesus is right at home with sinners, thugs, and outcasts. Most genealogies list only the male descendants. Remember, the ancient world was patriarchal. Men were more valued than women, so there was no need to list women—thanks for bearing our children, but we’ll take it from here. But Jesus’s genealogy lists five women, most of whom have some shady event attached to their name, all of whom we’ve already met. The first woman is Tamar, the Canaanite woman who dressed up as a prostitute in order to have sex with her father-in-law, Judah. Her plan succeeded, and she became pregnant with Perez, the one whom God would weave into Jesus’s family line. Next is Rahab, Jericho’s down-and-out prostitute, who was the first Canaanite to receive God’s grace. Among all the Canaanite leaders, among all the skilled warriors, Rahab was the only one who savored the majesty of Israel’s God. Then there’s Ruth, the foreign widow burdening a famished society. A social outcast, a perceived stigma of God’s judgment, Ruth was grafted into the messianic line. Then there’s “the wife of Uriah,” Bathsheba, who was entangled in the sinful affair with King David—the man who murdered her husband. Finally, there’s Mary, the teenage girl who got pregnant out of wedlock. Though she would become an icon in church tradition, her name was synonymous with shame and scandal in the beginning of the first century. You thought your family was messed up. All of these women were social outcasts. They belonged under a bridge. Whether it was their gender, ethnicity, or some sort of sexual debacle, they were rejected by society yet were part of Jesus’s genealogy—a tapestry of grace. Not only was God born in a feeding trough to enter our pain, but He chose to be born into a family tree filled with lust, perversion, murder, and deceit. This tells us a lot about the types of people Jesus wants to hang out with. It tells us that Jesus loves Tamars, Judahs, Gomers, and you.

There were no ferns or shocks of crabgrass or other signs of plant life—only the presence of ancient, hulking trees. The woods had a presence, a majesty that went beyond his ability to describe.

Shep-en-Mut The painted wooden face was known to me. She stood in the dusty museum sun, Painted eyes lengthened with kohl. Azure, terra-cotta, white, Emblazoned cartonnage. The Isis wings, spread in care and love. Curving protective Neckbet and Nepthys. Beneath, the corticated skin, Black bitumen. Eyeless, cracked and black, Dessicated viscera, wrapped apart. Leaving child and husband, moving through satin bands of shadow, Singing in the ecstatic sun. Feet hissing through the silken sand She carried the Milk Jar and a Palm frond, Worshipping and serving each day. This lady was the songstress of Amun-Re, Her songs curved upward in the great Temple of Thebes. The stone beauty of the face of the God above her frailty Gave her voice a scope of praise denied to our dessicated senses When death stooped on her, claws and beak ripped. Then feathers lay outstretched in love. Horus wings, Night Heron beak, Having slain, now standing guard in fearful phalanx. Leaving the echo between the roof trees. Her flesh must be pickled, cured with cinnamon and myrrh. The skull, frail as a blown egg, Emptied of its convolute majesty, Stuffed with delicate resinous rags. When the sucking natron has had its meal Her shell will taste the shriving sun and wind once more. Blow gently, shine kindly down, Amun-Re, on thy slave. She shall be wrapped in fine linen Layer on layer, and laced like a shoe. The last we shall see in linen and plaster and paint. May her journey be safe through the dark tunnels May her soul sing in light before her God, In soft peace. The holding wings enfold my friend. Priestess of Thebes. Singer of Amun-Re Bearer of the little Milk Jar.

What's this? Must I be held enthralled Again, cruel skies, to fleeting dreams Of grandeur Time will surely mock? Must I again be forced to glimpse Amid the shadows and the fog The majesty and faded pomp That waft inconstant on the wind? Must I again be left to face Life's disillusion or the risks To which man's limits are exposed From birth and never truly end? This cannot be. It cannot be. Behold me here, a slave again To fortune's whims. As I have learned That life is really just a dream, I say to you, false shadows, Go! My deadened senses know your schemes, To feign a body and a voice When voice and body both are shams. I've no desire for majesty That's phony or for pompous flam, Illusions of sheer fantasy That can't withstand the slightest breeze And dissipate entirely like The blossoms on an almond tree That bloom too early in the spring Without a hint to anyone. The beauty, light, and ornament Reflecting from their rosy buds Fade all too soon; these wilt and fall When but the gentlest gusts blow by. I know you all too well, I do, To fancy you'd act otherwise Toward other souls who likewise sleep. So let this vain pretending cease; I'm disabused of all I thought And know now life is but a dream

Sometimes you spend hours contemplating a tree, describing it, dissecting it: the roots, the trunk, the branches, the leaves, every leaf, every rib of every leaf, every branch again, and the unending play of the indifferent shapes that your eager gaze solicits or conjures up: a face, a town, a maze or a path, coats of arms and cavalcades. As your perception gets sharper, more patient and more versatile, the tree shatters and then reforms, a thousand shades of green, a thousand leaves, identical and yet all different. You think that you could spend your whole life in front of a tree, never exhausting it and never understanding it, because there is nothing for you to understand, just something to look at: when all is said and done, all you can say about this tree is that it is a tree; all this tree can say to you is that it is a tree, a root, then a trunk, then branches, then leaves. You can't expect to extract any other truth from it. The tree has no moral to offer you, no message to impart. Its strength, its majesty, its life - if you still hope to draw some meaning, some courage, from these outworn metaphors - are only ever images, neat illustrations, as useless as the tranquillity of the fields, as the still waters which, reputedly, run deep, or the courage of the little paths that don't climb very high but do so all alone, or the smiling hillsides upon which bunches of grapes ripen in the sun. And that is why the tree fascinates you, or astounds you, or calms you: because of the unsuspected and unimpeachable obviousness of the bark, the branches and the leaves. That is why, perhaps, you never go walking with a dog, because the dog looks at you, pleads with you, speaks to you. Its eyes brimming with tears of gratitude, its servile expression, its canine frolicking, constantly force you to confer on it the ignoble status of pet. You cannot remain neutral in the company of a dog any more than in the company of a man. But you will never hold a conversation with a tree. You cannot live in the company of a dog, because the dog is constantly calling upon you to make it live, to feed it, to stroke it, to be a man for it, to be its master, to be the god roaring the name - dog - that will make it instantly grovel on the ground. But the tree asks nothing of you. You can be the God of the dogs, God of the cats, God of the poor, all you need is a leash, a little tenderness, a little money, but you will never be master of the tree. All you can ever wish for is to become a tree in your turn.

So, here they were, face to face with the Son of God! When they had first seen him in the throne room, he had been nearly indistinguishable from the Father. In a manner that defied explanation and description, both he and the entity who had leaned upon the back of the Father’s throne had been one with God himself. Now, outside the throne room, the Son was clearly his own person, yet his majesty and the wonder he evoked were not diminished. He was unsurpassably beautiful. Tall and graceful, he sat upon his fabulous steed with a dignity that emanated pure power. His snow white hair hung to his saddle-back in thick waves, two intricate braids caught back at the temples to form a tiara entwined with gold. Despite his snowy hair, his face, while containing all the eons of heaven, seemed ageless, eternally youthful. His clothing, while utterly elegant, was simple and straightforward. A gown of blazing white was topped by a sleeveless coat of sky blue, and draping all was a cloak of deep, dark scarlet, its ample hood spread out across his shoulders. Everything was trimmed with gold and silver braid, gleaming gems of many colors peeking here and there from the folds. His horse’s tack was fabulous, all of embossed gold and cushioned wood, carved with dazzling intricacy. But, they had only a moment to take all of this in, before the prince saluted them with an outstretched arm. “Good day, friends,” he hailed them. “We meet again.” Gabriel’s heart lurched. He would have returned the salutation, but his voice failed him. Supporting one another, the four archangels were determined not to fall down. But, it was no use. They simply had no strength to stay upright. Besides, they were overcome with the desire to worship this mighty prince. Slumping to the ground, even the most self-assured of them, Lucifer, was brought to his knees. Again, the seraph flew over them, this time raising them to their feet without laying a hand on them. A swift flick of his fingers, and they were upright, once again. By the time they had regained their composure, the prince had dismounted and was walking toward one root of the mammoth tree. “Follow me,” he said, waving them forward. “It is time for us to have a talk.” Michael was the first to comply. Gabriel followed, with Raphael and Uriel close behind, all of them tingling from head to toe.

In fact, most of what we see is also a chunked pattern. We rarely look at the real world; we instead recognize something we have chunked and leave it at that. The world could easily be composed of cardboard stand-ins for real objects as far as our brains are concerned. One might argue that the essence of much of art is forcing us to see things as they are rather than as we assume them to be. Poems about trees force us to look at the majesty of bark and the subtlety of leaf, the strength of trunk and the amazing abstractness of the negative space between boughs; they are getting us to ignore the image in our head of “wood, big greenish, whatever” that we take for granted.

Kakuro was talking about birch trees and, forgetting all those psychoanalysts and intelligent people who don't know what to do with their intelligence, I suddenly felt my spirit expand, for I was capable of grasping the utter beauty of the trees... After I'd had a chance to think about it for a while I began to understand why I felt this sudden joy when Kakuro was talking about the birch trees. I get the same feeling when anyone talks about trees, any trees: the linden tree in the farmyard, the oak behind the old barn, the stately elms that have all disappeared now, the pine trees along the windswept coasts, etc. There's so much humanity in a love of trees, so much nostalgia for our first sense of wonder, so much power in just feeling our own insignificance when we are surrounded by nature . . . yes, that's it: Just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty and our love for them teaches us how ridiculous we are --vile parasites squirming on the surface of the earth-- and at the same time how deserving of life we can be, when we honor this beauty that owes us nothing.

Honor He Wrote Sonnet 12 After all this time, the sun doesn't say to us, Listen you guys, you owe all your light to me. The trees don’t grab our throat with its vines, And yell, all your air and food are my charity. A candle does not burn to be appraised, But because to burn is the purpose of a candle. A candle not burning is no candle at all, Be a burning candle and live life purpose-driven. Life is a vessel of infinite majesty and potential, Let us not let it rot at the shore playing safe. Come hail or high water, let us be shredded, Let us be annihilated in service and in help. Let us be human, let us be alive across all narrowness. Let us be the shinning beacon of supreme unselfishness.

All the art of the old Japanese painters (who in almost all periods were monks) is explained if it is understood that, for them, the visible world was a perpetual allusion to Wisdom, like that great tree which, with unutterable majesty, says No to evil for us’ (ibid.).

To capture this combination of large and small, Llewellyn used software to merge multiple photographs. The resulting images allow you to see these tree parts more clearly than you can in real life. Both the large and the small perspectives remain in focus, producing startling images. What looks like a radiant deep-sea creature turns out to be the vermillion pollen-releasing structure of a common red maple.

overloaded horses bent backwards by the chisel of the mason who once sculpted an eternal now on the brow of the wingless archangel, time-deformed cherubim and the false protests, overweight bowels fallen from the barracks of the pink house carved with grey rain unfallen, never creaking, never opening door, with the mouth wide, darkened and extinguished like a burning boat floating in a voiceless sea, bottle of rum down threadbare socks, singing from pavement to pavement, bright iridescent flame, "Oh, my Annie, my heart is sore!", slept chin on the curb of the last star, the lintel illuminated the forgotten light cast to a different plane, ah the wick of a celestial candle. The piling up of pigeons, tram lines, the pickpocket boys, the melancholy silver, an ode to Plotinus, the rattle of cattle, the goat in the woods, and the retreat night in the railroad houses, the ghosts of terraces, the wine shakes, the broken pencils, the drunk and wet rags, the eucalyptus and the sky. Impossible eyes, wide avenues, shirt sleeves, time receded, 'now close your eyes, this will not hurt a bit', the rose within the rose, dreaming pale under sheets such brilliance, highlighting unreality of a night that never comes. Toothless Cantineros stomp sad lullabies with sad old boots, turning from star to star, following the trail of the line, from dust, to dust, back to dust, out late, wrapped in a white blanket, top of the world, laughs upturned, belly rumbling by the butchers door, kissing the idol, tracing the balconies, long strings of flowers in the shape of a heart, love rolls and folds, from the Window to Window, afflicting seriousness from one too big and ever-charged soul, consolidating everything to nothing, of a song unsung, the sun soundlessly rising, reducing the majesty of heroic hearts and observing the sad night with watery eyes, everything present, abounding, horses frolic on the high hazy hills, a ships sails into the mist, a baby weeps for mother, windows open, lights behind curtains, the supple avenue swoons in the blissful banality, bells ringing for all yet to come forgotten, of bursting beauty bathing in every bright eternal now, counteract the charge, a last turn, what will it be, flowers by the gate, shoe less in the park, burn a hole in the missionary door, by the moonlit table, reading the decree of the Rose to the Resistance, holding the parchment, once a green tree, sticking out of the recital and the solitaire, unbuttoning her coat sitting for a portrait, uncorking a bottle, her eyes like lead, her loose blouse and petticoat, drying out briefs by the stone belfry and her hair in a photo long ago when, black as a night, a muddy river past the weeds, carrying the leaves, her coffee stained photo blowing down the street. Train by train, all goes slow, mist its the morning of lights, it is the day of the Bull, the fiesta of magic, the castanets never stop, the sound between the ringing of the bells, the long and muted silence of the distant sea, gypsy hands full of rosemary, every sweet, deep blue buckets for eyes, dawn comes, the Brahmanic splendour, sunlit gilt crown capped by clouds, brazen, illuminated, bright be dawn, golden avenues, its top to bottom, green to gold, but the sky and the plaza, blood red like the great bleeding out Bull, and if your quiet enough, you can hear the heart weeping.

Perhaps it’s this autumn beauty that inclines people toward ginkgos. When they grow older still, they become giants of great gravitas. In comparison to those massive craggy branches, the leaves are dots. You can see through their pointillist drapery to the interior architecture. They live for many hundreds of years. Careful reviews of historical records puts the oldest trees at about a thousand years, though some claim they are as much as four thousand years old. These big ginkgos—there are more than one hundred of them—are especially magnificent in the autumn.

There is so much humanity in a love of trees, so much nostalgia for our first sense of wonder, so much power in just feeling our insignificance when we are surrounded by nature. Just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty teaches us how ridiculous we are and at the same time how deserving of life we can be, when we honour this beauty that owes us nothing.

Squirrels eat a lot of other things besides tree nuts: plants, underground fungi, insects, bones, sometimes baby birds, and even in some cases each other.

My dear, dear pollywog, you do not need to look far for the Tree of Life. You ARE the Tree of Life. Your feet, its roots. Your arms , its limbs. Your mind, its flower. It is why we were able to overcome the giants and the brutes. For we do not have mere brains. We have MINDS that can imagine fancy and we have the strong bodies to make those fancies real. We are what the ancient magi speak of— ‘for so below, so above. So within, so without.’ Your flower and roots are bound in the royal river of majesty. Do you not yet understand, Lad, that everything you need is within you? Nay, you do not need to look far for the Tree of Life, you need to look into the mirrored glass—there you will find the flower and if you study with your heart , the flower shall fall and her fruit shall shine golden.

No sight that the human eyes can look upon is more provocative of awe than is the night sky scattered thick with stars. But this silence made visible, this silence made audible, does not necessarily give rise to a religious mood. It may evoke a mood that neither requires nor postulates a God. On frosty January nights when I walk over the downs I feel myself to be passing through a lofty heathen temple, a temple without devil-affrighting steeple bells, without altars of stone or altars of wood. Constellation beyond constellation, the unaltering white splash of the Milky Way, and no sign of benison, no sign of bane, only the homely hedgerow shadows and the earth's resigned stillness outstretched under the unparticipating splendour of a physical absolute.” A wise man can do no better than to turn from the churches and look up through the airy majesty of the wayside trees with exultation, with resignation, at the unconquerable unimplicated sun.

HOW TO LIVE. WHAT TO DO Last evening the moon rose above this rock Impure upon a world unpurged. The man and his companion stopped To rest before the heroic height. Coldly the wind fell upon them In many majesties of sound: They that had left the flame-freaked sun To seek a sun of fuller fire. Instead there was this tufted rock Massively rising high and bare Beyond all trees, the ridges thrown Like giant arms among the clouds. There was neither voice nor crested image, No chorister, nor priest. There was Only the great height of the rock And the two of them standing still to rest. There was the cold wind and the sound It made, away from the muck of the land That they had left, heroic sound Joyous and jubilant and sure.

All eyes were eagerly fixed on the low wooded hills which slept in the moonlight, spangled by fireflies, with a million dancing stars; all nostrils drank greedily the fragrant air, which swept from the land, laden with the scent of a thousand flowers; all ears welcomed, as a grateful change from the monotonous whisper and lap of the water, the hum of insects, the snore of the tree-toads, the plaintive notes of the shore-fowl, which fill a tropic night with noisy life.

Stitch. Pull. Stitch. Pull. Fabric turned. Stitch. María Marta’s mind wandered to the open spaces of her childhood, the rhythm of a cantering horse fueling her daydreams, Tree’s branches spreading inside her head, dissolving the cramped ceiling of the rooms that they rented into the majesty of open land and infinite sky. All the beauty of her youth stored up in her head, an endless supply of fresh air.

He knew exactly what he wanted, he had been working over it in his mind for some seven years now... he had yet to see how much ground he had to use, but neither beauty nor splendor have need of great size. What he wanted was light, light and space, and the upward surge of stone like a growing tree from foundations to vault. No oppression, no darkness, no burden of thick, groaning columns and lowering roofs like the stony weight of guilt. He saw the shape clearly. No chevet of chapels, but a square east end, so that he could have a whole wall of invading light pouring in upon the high altar. Short, strong transepts, lofty aisles, and the clerestory tall and fully glazed above a shallow triforium. The west front with a great, deeply-cut doorway and a vast window above, set back in course on course of moulding, where the light could harp all day long on strings of stone, making even that greyer northern air shine lucid and sharp as the dazzling south. Over the west front two minor turrets, tapering to slender fingers of stone. Over the crossing the great tower, as in Normandy, binding all together, rooting all impregnably into the earth, drawing all erect with it towards heaven. In that tension was the significance of life, and next to light, this he wanted above all, the duality of flesh and spirit, manhood and godhead, the tension of man on his way to God. A noble tower, tall and tapered, its long surfaces so subtly fluted and molded that light and shadow might stroke it into a hundred changing shapes of majesty and beauty as the hours of the daylight passed. Permanence and change, diversity and oneness, in that grey-gold stone that glowed in his memory like - what was Adam's phrase?- a mine of sunshine. There is no growth nor fruitfulness but rises from these paired opposites of darkness and light, earth and heaven. My feet as roots in the earth, my forehead straining into the sun. The tower at once anchoring my church fast to the rock, and translating it into a balanced arrow of light aimed at the sky. There is no beauty where there is doubt or insecurity. A sense of unbalance is the death of art.

If this was the world as the god-or gods-had made it, then mortal man, this mortal man, could acknowledge that and honour the power and infinite majesty that lay within it, but he would not say it was right, or bow down as if he were only dust or a brittle leaf blown from an autumn tree, helpless in the wind. He might be, all men and women might be as helpless as that leaf, but he would not admit it, and he would do something here on the dome that said-or aspired to say-these things, and more. He had journeyed here to do this. Had done his sailing and was still sailing, perhaps, and would put into mosaics of the Sanctuary as much of the living journey and what lay within it and behind is as his craft and desire could encompass.

...just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty and our love for them teaches us how ridiculous we are—vile parasites squirming on the surface of the earth—and at the same time how deserving of life we can be, when we can honor this beauty that owes us nothing.

We can be so busy searching for a picture-perfect angle to fully capture the majesty of the forest, that we miss the breathtaking splendor of the trees and leaves that make up its view. The simple things are the easiest to overlook.

There’s so much humanity in a love of trees, so much nostalgia for our first sense of wonder, so much power in just feeling our own insignificance when we are surrounded by nature . . . yes, that’s it: just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty and our love for them teaches us how ridiculous we are—

Knives poised close to the throat—then the voices are slowly imbibed. Glutted majesty heaves himself back from the vampiric supper, While the Judas trees thrive in the hush of their forested bed.

Very well, Your Majesty. Loth can be Duke of Flattery, and I’ll be Duchess of Deceit.

The King’s visit brought a great improvement to the province. To prepare for his reception, streets were improved, trees were cut, street lights were installed. If His Majesty had enough time to visit all parts of the country, Siam would soon be prosperous, because the viceroys and governors would get busy and improve the country for the royal visit.

A dragon has just flown over the tree-tops and lighted on the beach. Yes, I am afraid it is between us and the ship. And arrows are no use against dragons. And they're not at all afraid of fire.’ / ‘With your Majesty's leave-’ began Reepicheep. ’No, Reepicheep,’ said the King very firmly, ‘you are not to attempt a single combat with it.

On high, the succulent leaves whispered in peace and joy, and the boughs of the living tress slowly stirred themselves, looking down in majesty on the dead tree that lay flat out on the ground.