A Phoenix journal - 239

Author : A Phoenix journal
Title : 239
Year : 1998

Link download : A_Phoenix_journal_-_239.zip

CHAPTER 1. REC #1 HATONN. SAT., APR. 11, 1998 7:27 A.M. YR. 11, DAY 238. SAT., APR. 11, 1998. IT’S JUST TOO MUCH! A great number of things in life-physical are “simply too much, Sir”, I’m told. Well, chelas, yesterday a mighty oak said to me, “Sir, it’s just too much—I cannot endure being unable to scratch my nose until the winds blow from the North. I can’t feed myself because some one chopped off my bark and I could do nothing to save myself. I offer shade and beauty and the very life-giving oxygen and my limbs are weak from the parasites feeding upon my very life substance. Sir, I am not able to continue being a tree. I feed the birds and little animals every Fall and yet the Woodpecker drills holes in my very being to store his nuts. Yes indeed, Sir, I will no longer stand here and be a tree!” And I asked of the tree: “What is the most terrible problem that you have?” “The parasites Sir, oh indeed, it is the terrible plague of PARASITES which I endure and so too do all my grove of trees. The moss doesn’t matter for it warms me but the other is slowly killing my whole species and nobody cares until I look ugly in their yards.” “Ah, then it is the parasites which should be cleaned from your body, your life, your business of being a tree?” I ask. “But,” I continue, “if you want to hold to your favorite parasite it is harder to let you recognize the ones you wish to clean away. Are you, Mr. Oak, willing to go through the process of realizing differences, seeing how the growth in cancer has happened and continues and then, are you willing to change your environment enough to slough off the invaders?” I know, Sir, how it started!” the tree reminisced. “The young people brought mistletoe to hang above their door to kiss beneath the twigs. When the whim was over it was Christmas and the mistletoe was dropped on its way to the trash and fell near me. Some birds living in my tree ate some of the seeds of the plant and then dropped them in my hair and upon the branches outside their little nests—and then it all began to happen. I popped out with parasites all over me. Word has it, Sir, that it is worse with the thistles. I heard on the wind that Starthistle was dumped right in the gravel pit where roadside maintenance crews get their road treatment for shoulders. Now, in my area the stuff has taken over the fields and roadways, and since it grows everywhere and anywhere, will it also get in my branches?” And then a great truth came forth; “I fear the human will now burn the entire land and forests to rid the parasites! Sir, I just can’t stand it, I am going to turn my attention to attracting those who hug me and promise me appreciation and soothe my sap while also honoring my parasites. If I honor the destroyers perhaps they will spontaneously take leave of my branches—surely it’s worth a try.” ...

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