It was a most random tryst. A Victorian-esque mystery trapped in the midst of a booming metropolis. The earth yearned to hold on to memories of simpler times, to ever flitting glimpses of lives long since past. Enticing, entrancing, those are the only words in existence to describe drawing—the need the place exuded. How many have walked these paths? How many have seen? No, not merely seen with the eyes within their skulls; eyes which only see that which is rational and explainable. How many have seen the vibrancy of life springing up anew? How many have seen the trembling of the flowers as their own fingers reach toward the delicate places? How many have seen?
I am merely a girl. I hold no place of glory within this world. My presence is not one of great accolade, but it is one of great insight. Perhaps my insight is not the deep, philosophical words of my predecessors such as Ghandi, Confusious, or Aristotle; no, my insight rather mirrors that of the great philosophers Van Gogh, Poe, and Beethoven, who with single strokes of pen on paper, created more insight into the thoughts and feelings of mankind than Aristotle ever could have done.
But, I have digressed from the tale of the Trees.
I knew this place had something special. I walked, as if drawn, to the chamber of intrigue. Inside this chamber, there lived such life that only a blind fool could miss. Sadly, the world is full of many such. As I approached the greenery of many varieties of ferns, I could feel. I could see, taste, touch, hear, smell the echoes of the past and the whispers of the future. As I walked the outer circle, my thoughts turned towards the fictional character of Dorian Grey, asking Vanessa Ives if she wished to see something beautiful—only, I was Vanessa and he was asking me. I heard his voice glide like silk into my ears. “Tell me what you see,” I heard him say; before I could respond, I felt his hand cup over my eyes and say, “No…tell me what you see.” It was at that moment that my world burst open with color, light, and life. I could smell the peat; I could hear the soft footsteps of the beautiful women of the past, walking where I was walking, murmuring near my ears about the latest gossip. I could taste the air and the myriad of flavors that seemed to writhe in, around, and through the very molecules themselves. I began to see the trembling of life in each leaf and flower. As I walked, I could hear the silken voice of my thoughts say, “Touch them…” So, without hesitation, I reached out with my fingers, leaves trembling as they approached. I felt the suppleness of the leaves, the tenderness of new buds. Even those which purposely defend themselves against human interaction seemed to lower their defenses as I reached out. “They want you to touch them,” said the voice, “…and they wish to touch you.” So, I allowed them to do so. I took a second pass through the international forest of fern and foliage and I allowed them to touch me. I closed my eyes and let the leaves fall where they may—not a single one desired to cause me harm. Soft and gentle fingers caressed my face and hair; buds called out for me to reach to them. The voice returned to my thoughts, “They love you because you understand. You see them. You don’t just look at them. They miss the touch; they miss the excitement of being experienced.”
What more could I say or do? I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted, “Tell the story. Tell the story as a gold thread weaved through a tapestry creates a portrait of grandeur and extravagance. Use the words you know; the words you love. I know you, Miss Mackey. I know you well. Within you is a heart that beats with life, with excitement, with passion. It is for you to show the world how to see—teach them. Begin with this moment, with this interaction. Tell them of me, of you, of the trees, and teach them to see the beauty. Teach them to live with passion.”
So, my friends. I end this brief glimpse into my world with the simple plea that you go out and see the forest within the flowers; see the ocean in each droplet of water; see the stars in the eyes of every person you meet. Life is meant to be experienced not merely lived.