alex77
06-15-2011, 02:31 AM
The Tree and the Weed
One summer day in the quaint, fenced in backyard of the Johnson family in Hygiene, Colorado, a large cotton wood tree and a weed began a peculiar dialogue of interest to those that might enjoy that type of thing. What they talked about over a period of four days, as absurd as it may sound, became life changing communications for both the Tree and the Weed. I will spare you the pointless realism of garden life and try to stick to the core of what took place, and only expand on what is absolutely necessary.
The day of May 30th, 1998 started out just like any other summer day that particular year. Two young boys played in the backyard of the Johnson residence in a typical, suburban neighborhood at the base of the Rocky Mountains. The older of the boys, Jimmie, was about nine years old and was the son of the retired couple that lived in the home. The other boy was a playmate of Jimmie's. Not much else was known about him in the garden community. The two boys spent close to an hour and a half wrestling around, killing bugs, kicking around rocks and playing on the swing set before tiring and going inside.
The quiet noises of the May mid-morning ensued- the chirping of birds flying about, bees roaming seamlessly through the air inches above the ground, and neighborly greetings off in the distance. There weren't many conversations going on in the backyard amongst the plants, for that type of of business is usually considered to be rather absurd. But on this particular day the large, majestic and cottonwood tree, mostly out of overflowing annoyance, ventured to comment to a weak, prickly little weed nearby in the rocks.
“That little boy makes me sick, I'm so tired of the ruckus he makes,” the tree spoke in a hoarse, old voice that had been weathered by the years.”
The ugly little weed was hesitant to respond, but did so out of friendly convention, speaking in a soft, high pitched voice, “I actually enjoy the company. It makes me happy to see children smiling and amusing themselves. Putting this small yard to some use other than mindless garden talk.”
“You're still young and stupid. Believe me, you'll eventually get real tired of them constantly moving around back here while you're stuck in place. And all they ever do is mess things up, make noise and play on that fortress of corpses,” The tree spoke, indicating the wooden swing set with his longest branch, only able to move it less than an inch.
“Well, I suppose they can be a little obnoxious, but you have to occupy yourself by enjoying the sunlight, and paying attention to other things. That's how I keep myself content.”
The tree scoffed at this and became angry, “Why you prickly little thing. As you get older you'll tire of these long, hot days and the dark, useless nights. You've only been alive for, what, a month or two. How dare you!,” the tree shouted before regaining himself. He continued on in a detached, broken kind of sentiment, “when fall comes, every year, I get violently ill for a few months for no good reason at all. Then, after that... it snows! It's terrible. Part of the grand scheme of my force misery. Then as I'm making my recovery I have nothing to look forward to but kids making noise, birds flying around harassing me and weeds that have big mouths.” The tree became exasperated and waited for the weed to respond, inwardly looking for provocation to be wound up even more.
The weed began shyly, “It's best not to focus on patterns that can't be changed, but to look for opportunities for meaningful enjoyment.”
“Will you shut up! You're starting to piss me off as much as that little kid Jimmie does,” in anger the tree began talking to himself more so than to the weed. “I swear that kid is going to grow up to be a lumberjack. At the very least he will work in landscaping- turning debauchery into an art.”
“I really don't approve of your attitude. I think that's all I have to say to you until you've changed your tune.”
Thus ended the first interaction between the grand cottonwood and the feeble little weed. At this point, it may be pertinent to explain why names seem to be being withheld. This is no oversight, for plants and trees do not have, nor do they refer to each by names. That would be bizarre.
Day 2
The day after the first interaction between the Tree and the Weed was marked by relative silence for most of the day. There was a lot of standing around- the usual weather talk amongst the small plants, and several profanity laced accusations directed at the dandelions in the yard made by some of the less cultured weeds. It was by all accounts a regular day in the Johnson's backyard. As such, this would seem an opportune time to describe the personalities of the Tree and the Weed in a little more detail. It does pain me somewhat to have to divert from the plot, I would rather “show not tell” as they say, but the inactive lifestyles of the Tree and the Weed do not permit that.
The lowly little Weed may be said to have had a youthful charm about him despite his exterior. It had been remarked before that he had a purity about him, a kind of gentle spirit. Atheism, agnosticism and the belief that the sprinkler heads are Gods dominate most all garden life, but the little Weed was already a devout Christian at a month and a half old. The Tree on the other hand had a deeply harbored disdain for Christianity. He knew nothing of what the Bible was about, but knew it was the most printed book in history. He regarded the mass publication of the Bible, and the paper used, to be a continual atrocity. In fact, he only harbored more disdain for Gutenberg.
The Tree was very reserved, quick to cast judgment and had a lot of dislikes. There was a kind of embitterment that was inside of him that he clung to, something he regarded as reasonable and wise. The Tree should be permitted to make that case, because after all, everything is subjective and a matter or perspective. Or maybe not. It's tough to tell sometimes.
Day 2 and 3 quarters
Towards evening the Tree finally spoke to the Weed, “I don't understand how you can be such an optimist. Your life will be much shorter than mine, you know.”
The Weed looked pleasantly startled, “Only more reason to keep a good attitude. God has a plan for us all, but it is up to us to keep a positive outlook. The path is paved, but handling the bumps is up to us.”
“That's funny,” retorted the Tree, somewhat bemused, but not angry as before, “I can't seem to go anywhere.”
“Nonetheless, there is a plan.”
“Ugh,” The Tree groaned, “plan? And what's your plan? All you are is a weed that bottom feeds off of water that is meant for me.”
The Weed thought for a moment, “Where is it you would rather be? I know you are unhappy. So tell me. Where is it you see yourself being happy?”
The Tree stood motionless for a moment. An observer up until this point might assume that the tree would not answer such a question. But I can tell you why the Tree had to answer, because he had too much bottled up inside, and really wanted to be drawn out.
“I've always wanted to be moved to a forest in Oregon,” began the Tree. “Hopefully along the coast so I can see the Ocean.”
“I've heard great things about Oregon and Washington. But here you have the most beautiful mountains to enjoy looking at.”
“But they are so distant.”
“Ah,” responded the Weed, “I have a feeling that, for you, everything is somewhat distant.”
The Tree motioned as if he wanted to shake his head, but unfortunately, he had no head, and for some reason wasn't able to motion very far. “Don't feed me that plantanalysis babble, you weed. How dare you.”
“I'm sorry,” said the weed taken aback. “I was just...”
“Shut up,” snapped the Tree, “your a bottom feeder. Your not worth the water of mine you use.”
“That again,” responded the Weed, trying to maintain his composure. “You see, I am referred to as a weed. I'm a small, ugly, little plant. To you, the owners, perhaps to all- I'm nothing. I just take up space and sap water. But all I really want is to live life. Nothing more than a little water and a little sunlight. Whether it is meant for you, whether I don't belong- life knows no rules, simply the urge to continue. As for you, you wish to be off in some coastal paradise surrounded by other trees, but instead are stuck here in this backyard surrounded by weeds and obnoxious noises. We are both just victims of circumstance, and how we deal with our roles defines the outcome. It's all a matter of perspective which can be made better by a good attitude.”
The tree was left speechless. He would have wept that day, if only he had tears to cry. Truth be told, what the Weed spoke of wasn't that much of a speech. Not a brightening epiphany at all, optimistic and maybe insightful, but no deeper that than Weed's roots. I would venture to say that the Tree had been waiting for this moment. Sometimes the bitterest resentment and loneliest distrust is only clung to out of necessity, actually wanting to be pushed away. As hardened as the feelings may be, they just need the gentlest touch from the right direction to be warmed. This probably isn't the exact case in what happened to the Tree, but I would bet that it's not far off.
Day 3
Rain came down from the mountains and fell rapidly throughout the following day. The Tree had wanted to continue the previous days conversation with the Weed, but as you may know, for plant life at least, discussing anything in the rain is next to impossible. Toward evening, as the rain died down, the Tree broke the wet silence, “I've been thinking a lot about what you said yesterday.”
“I hope your not mad,” said the Weed, utterly refreshed by the rain.
“No, not at all. I realized today that I've been keeping myself from being happy. As the rain was coming down, and I stared off into the mountains, for the first time, I felt content. Life sure can be strange.”
“That's good to hear,” replied the Weed. “In each of us there is bitterness, sadness, happiness, and all that. I believe that it all depends on what we strive to feel the most of that comes through.”
“You know what, you are the wisest weed I've ever met.”
“That's not true. I'm just happy.”
Both the Tree and the Weed laughed together, feeling a moment of togetherness despite it all, but in spite of nothing. “What's even better,” began the Tree, “is that as the birds were flying around me earlier I actually kind of liked it. That's something that just yesterday would have driven me crazy.”
“Your real sick, but I like you.” The two continued to laugh together well into that night.
Day 4
The fourth day since the meeting of the Tree and the Weed began as the happiest of both their lives. They had both made their first true friend. Early in the morning they joked and laughed together- about the wind damaged fence, the strange behaviors of the dandelions and the loud cars in the distance (which didn't bother the Tree today). At around noon the little boy Jimmie and Mr. Johnson appeared outside of the mystical door to the big house. Mr. Johnson, a man of about fifty-five, had a beer in hand when he took a seat on one of the three green lawn chairs on the wood deck facing the yard.
“Alright boy, get some work done,” he bellowed, already half drunk. “Do what I showed you to do in the front back here.”
Jimmie began scurrying about the backyard, happily picking up the clutter and tossing his toys up on the deck. The Weed spoke quietly to the tree, “you see how happy and pure of spirit he is. The world batters us and abuses, but we should all strive to maintain that kind of childlike purity, because therein lies happiness.”
“I know your right,” whispered the Tree, not wanting to be overheard.
Just then Jimmie ran up to them, stopped and then keeled down as if he were about to pray right in front of the Weed. With a joyous smile, he ripped the Weed from the ground, sending rocks askew, playfully and happily; maiming and killing, destroying dreams and sending what exists into nothingness in his soft hand. The Tree watched in horror at the gentle brutality. After a few minutes of this “harmless” yard cleaning the little boy returned to his father and they left the Tree in the pondering sunlight beneath the deep blue sky. The world is a bizarre place. To believe that good things will come, to have faith in the power of tomorrow is the best way, and it may be the only way. But at the end of the day, that will count for all or for nothing. At any given moment the world may turn as part of providence, happenstance, karma, for the greater good or for no reason at all. Here in this world purpose and meaninglessness dance constantly leaving behind the trail that is life.
Minutes after the Weed's untimely death, the Tree noticed that a worm had been tossed against a couple of loose rocks in the yard and was crawling back towards the soil. In a moment of deep thought that every worm has at least a few times over the course of it's lifetime, he thought to himself, “what's the point of this? Is life just a continual search for fresh manure?”
One summer day in the quaint, fenced in backyard of the Johnson family in Hygiene, Colorado, a large cotton wood tree and a weed began a peculiar dialogue of interest to those that might enjoy that type of thing. What they talked about over a period of four days, as absurd as it may sound, became life changing communications for both the Tree and the Weed. I will spare you the pointless realism of garden life and try to stick to the core of what took place, and only expand on what is absolutely necessary.
The day of May 30th, 1998 started out just like any other summer day that particular year. Two young boys played in the backyard of the Johnson residence in a typical, suburban neighborhood at the base of the Rocky Mountains. The older of the boys, Jimmie, was about nine years old and was the son of the retired couple that lived in the home. The other boy was a playmate of Jimmie's. Not much else was known about him in the garden community. The two boys spent close to an hour and a half wrestling around, killing bugs, kicking around rocks and playing on the swing set before tiring and going inside.
The quiet noises of the May mid-morning ensued- the chirping of birds flying about, bees roaming seamlessly through the air inches above the ground, and neighborly greetings off in the distance. There weren't many conversations going on in the backyard amongst the plants, for that type of of business is usually considered to be rather absurd. But on this particular day the large, majestic and cottonwood tree, mostly out of overflowing annoyance, ventured to comment to a weak, prickly little weed nearby in the rocks.
“That little boy makes me sick, I'm so tired of the ruckus he makes,” the tree spoke in a hoarse, old voice that had been weathered by the years.”
The ugly little weed was hesitant to respond, but did so out of friendly convention, speaking in a soft, high pitched voice, “I actually enjoy the company. It makes me happy to see children smiling and amusing themselves. Putting this small yard to some use other than mindless garden talk.”
“You're still young and stupid. Believe me, you'll eventually get real tired of them constantly moving around back here while you're stuck in place. And all they ever do is mess things up, make noise and play on that fortress of corpses,” The tree spoke, indicating the wooden swing set with his longest branch, only able to move it less than an inch.
“Well, I suppose they can be a little obnoxious, but you have to occupy yourself by enjoying the sunlight, and paying attention to other things. That's how I keep myself content.”
The tree scoffed at this and became angry, “Why you prickly little thing. As you get older you'll tire of these long, hot days and the dark, useless nights. You've only been alive for, what, a month or two. How dare you!,” the tree shouted before regaining himself. He continued on in a detached, broken kind of sentiment, “when fall comes, every year, I get violently ill for a few months for no good reason at all. Then, after that... it snows! It's terrible. Part of the grand scheme of my force misery. Then as I'm making my recovery I have nothing to look forward to but kids making noise, birds flying around harassing me and weeds that have big mouths.” The tree became exasperated and waited for the weed to respond, inwardly looking for provocation to be wound up even more.
The weed began shyly, “It's best not to focus on patterns that can't be changed, but to look for opportunities for meaningful enjoyment.”
“Will you shut up! You're starting to piss me off as much as that little kid Jimmie does,” in anger the tree began talking to himself more so than to the weed. “I swear that kid is going to grow up to be a lumberjack. At the very least he will work in landscaping- turning debauchery into an art.”
“I really don't approve of your attitude. I think that's all I have to say to you until you've changed your tune.”
Thus ended the first interaction between the grand cottonwood and the feeble little weed. At this point, it may be pertinent to explain why names seem to be being withheld. This is no oversight, for plants and trees do not have, nor do they refer to each by names. That would be bizarre.
Day 2
The day after the first interaction between the Tree and the Weed was marked by relative silence for most of the day. There was a lot of standing around- the usual weather talk amongst the small plants, and several profanity laced accusations directed at the dandelions in the yard made by some of the less cultured weeds. It was by all accounts a regular day in the Johnson's backyard. As such, this would seem an opportune time to describe the personalities of the Tree and the Weed in a little more detail. It does pain me somewhat to have to divert from the plot, I would rather “show not tell” as they say, but the inactive lifestyles of the Tree and the Weed do not permit that.
The lowly little Weed may be said to have had a youthful charm about him despite his exterior. It had been remarked before that he had a purity about him, a kind of gentle spirit. Atheism, agnosticism and the belief that the sprinkler heads are Gods dominate most all garden life, but the little Weed was already a devout Christian at a month and a half old. The Tree on the other hand had a deeply harbored disdain for Christianity. He knew nothing of what the Bible was about, but knew it was the most printed book in history. He regarded the mass publication of the Bible, and the paper used, to be a continual atrocity. In fact, he only harbored more disdain for Gutenberg.
The Tree was very reserved, quick to cast judgment and had a lot of dislikes. There was a kind of embitterment that was inside of him that he clung to, something he regarded as reasonable and wise. The Tree should be permitted to make that case, because after all, everything is subjective and a matter or perspective. Or maybe not. It's tough to tell sometimes.
Day 2 and 3 quarters
Towards evening the Tree finally spoke to the Weed, “I don't understand how you can be such an optimist. Your life will be much shorter than mine, you know.”
The Weed looked pleasantly startled, “Only more reason to keep a good attitude. God has a plan for us all, but it is up to us to keep a positive outlook. The path is paved, but handling the bumps is up to us.”
“That's funny,” retorted the Tree, somewhat bemused, but not angry as before, “I can't seem to go anywhere.”
“Nonetheless, there is a plan.”
“Ugh,” The Tree groaned, “plan? And what's your plan? All you are is a weed that bottom feeds off of water that is meant for me.”
The Weed thought for a moment, “Where is it you would rather be? I know you are unhappy. So tell me. Where is it you see yourself being happy?”
The Tree stood motionless for a moment. An observer up until this point might assume that the tree would not answer such a question. But I can tell you why the Tree had to answer, because he had too much bottled up inside, and really wanted to be drawn out.
“I've always wanted to be moved to a forest in Oregon,” began the Tree. “Hopefully along the coast so I can see the Ocean.”
“I've heard great things about Oregon and Washington. But here you have the most beautiful mountains to enjoy looking at.”
“But they are so distant.”
“Ah,” responded the Weed, “I have a feeling that, for you, everything is somewhat distant.”
The Tree motioned as if he wanted to shake his head, but unfortunately, he had no head, and for some reason wasn't able to motion very far. “Don't feed me that plantanalysis babble, you weed. How dare you.”
“I'm sorry,” said the weed taken aback. “I was just...”
“Shut up,” snapped the Tree, “your a bottom feeder. Your not worth the water of mine you use.”
“That again,” responded the Weed, trying to maintain his composure. “You see, I am referred to as a weed. I'm a small, ugly, little plant. To you, the owners, perhaps to all- I'm nothing. I just take up space and sap water. But all I really want is to live life. Nothing more than a little water and a little sunlight. Whether it is meant for you, whether I don't belong- life knows no rules, simply the urge to continue. As for you, you wish to be off in some coastal paradise surrounded by other trees, but instead are stuck here in this backyard surrounded by weeds and obnoxious noises. We are both just victims of circumstance, and how we deal with our roles defines the outcome. It's all a matter of perspective which can be made better by a good attitude.”
The tree was left speechless. He would have wept that day, if only he had tears to cry. Truth be told, what the Weed spoke of wasn't that much of a speech. Not a brightening epiphany at all, optimistic and maybe insightful, but no deeper that than Weed's roots. I would venture to say that the Tree had been waiting for this moment. Sometimes the bitterest resentment and loneliest distrust is only clung to out of necessity, actually wanting to be pushed away. As hardened as the feelings may be, they just need the gentlest touch from the right direction to be warmed. This probably isn't the exact case in what happened to the Tree, but I would bet that it's not far off.
Day 3
Rain came down from the mountains and fell rapidly throughout the following day. The Tree had wanted to continue the previous days conversation with the Weed, but as you may know, for plant life at least, discussing anything in the rain is next to impossible. Toward evening, as the rain died down, the Tree broke the wet silence, “I've been thinking a lot about what you said yesterday.”
“I hope your not mad,” said the Weed, utterly refreshed by the rain.
“No, not at all. I realized today that I've been keeping myself from being happy. As the rain was coming down, and I stared off into the mountains, for the first time, I felt content. Life sure can be strange.”
“That's good to hear,” replied the Weed. “In each of us there is bitterness, sadness, happiness, and all that. I believe that it all depends on what we strive to feel the most of that comes through.”
“You know what, you are the wisest weed I've ever met.”
“That's not true. I'm just happy.”
Both the Tree and the Weed laughed together, feeling a moment of togetherness despite it all, but in spite of nothing. “What's even better,” began the Tree, “is that as the birds were flying around me earlier I actually kind of liked it. That's something that just yesterday would have driven me crazy.”
“Your real sick, but I like you.” The two continued to laugh together well into that night.
Day 4
The fourth day since the meeting of the Tree and the Weed began as the happiest of both their lives. They had both made their first true friend. Early in the morning they joked and laughed together- about the wind damaged fence, the strange behaviors of the dandelions and the loud cars in the distance (which didn't bother the Tree today). At around noon the little boy Jimmie and Mr. Johnson appeared outside of the mystical door to the big house. Mr. Johnson, a man of about fifty-five, had a beer in hand when he took a seat on one of the three green lawn chairs on the wood deck facing the yard.
“Alright boy, get some work done,” he bellowed, already half drunk. “Do what I showed you to do in the front back here.”
Jimmie began scurrying about the backyard, happily picking up the clutter and tossing his toys up on the deck. The Weed spoke quietly to the tree, “you see how happy and pure of spirit he is. The world batters us and abuses, but we should all strive to maintain that kind of childlike purity, because therein lies happiness.”
“I know your right,” whispered the Tree, not wanting to be overheard.
Just then Jimmie ran up to them, stopped and then keeled down as if he were about to pray right in front of the Weed. With a joyous smile, he ripped the Weed from the ground, sending rocks askew, playfully and happily; maiming and killing, destroying dreams and sending what exists into nothingness in his soft hand. The Tree watched in horror at the gentle brutality. After a few minutes of this “harmless” yard cleaning the little boy returned to his father and they left the Tree in the pondering sunlight beneath the deep blue sky. The world is a bizarre place. To believe that good things will come, to have faith in the power of tomorrow is the best way, and it may be the only way. But at the end of the day, that will count for all or for nothing. At any given moment the world may turn as part of providence, happenstance, karma, for the greater good or for no reason at all. Here in this world purpose and meaninglessness dance constantly leaving behind the trail that is life.
Minutes after the Weed's untimely death, the Tree noticed that a worm had been tossed against a couple of loose rocks in the yard and was crawling back towards the soil. In a moment of deep thought that every worm has at least a few times over the course of it's lifetime, he thought to himself, “what's the point of this? Is life just a continual search for fresh manure?”