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Trees: the most penetrable preachers

September 23, 2014

There is this old Gulmohar tree near home. The tree is so big and its branches spread wide and form an umbrella like canopy. I usually spend sometime of my evenings sitting under it – sometimes reading a book, sometimes counting the innumerable leaves it has, many-a-times just enjoying the peace and fresh air it offers. I love the times when its branches come down and touch the ground. And the times when it seems the ground beneath it has been covered by a beautiful red carpet. I walk carefully then trying my best not to tread the beautiful flowers strewn all around.

It is my dream to paint a realistic picture of a tree. I tried many times and failed miserably. Last week I was able to make something that made me smile. It looked like a real tree – like one of the many I adore.


Sitting under the tree and listening its leaves rustle freely in the direction of the wind, I feel at home. It reminds me of the perhaps one of the most beautiful passages I have ever read, from Hermann Hesse’s Trees: Reflections and Poems. The whole purpose of this post is to share with you this poetic piece. Hope you like it and share it with people around.

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.

7 Comments leave one →
  1. September 24, 2014 05:01

    Yes! Yes! Love the painting! 🙂 And Hesse is my favorite author.


  2. September 24, 2014 12:52

    Lovely wisdom of penetrating preachers. Thank you.


  3. September 25, 2014 10:05



  4. March 2, 2015 11:14

    Wonderful piece- thanks for sharing!


  5. Sithara permalink
    April 28, 2016 15:57

    Beautiful read! There’s nothing more calming & peaceful than sitting in company with a tree… It truly envelopes you , speaks with you and let’s you be.. Thank you for sharing ..


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