Trees are sanctuaries

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 fulfil 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.

“Be joyful in hope”- Romans 12:12

When asked, at the end of his career, what great lessons he had learned from history, the great American historian Charles Beard answered, “I’ve learned four:

First – whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad with power.
Second- the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceedingly fine
Third- the bee fertilizes the flower it robs.
Fourth- only when it’s dark are you able to see the stars.”


Charles Beard was a hope-a-holic. So am I. I have an incurable, instinctive, impulsive tendency to surrender to hope. I know yesterday is a cancelled check. Today is cash in hand to spend as I want. And tomorrow is a promissory note from God almighty.
This hope will not disappoint. Our “hopes” may not all be fulfilled, but hope is its own immediate reward; it offers us the gift of unceasing optimism.

*****

Think about all the things in your life that give you a sense of hope. Next time you’re feeling discouraged or disappointed, read through your hope list and you’ll find renewed optimism.

You asked to sleep with me but


you had no intentions of sleep.


Rather you craved something lively,


an intimacy quite deep.


I let you lye next to my body for


I wanted to feel how our forms touched.


I wanted to see if we fit, if by


you I was always meant to be clutched.


Plus I knew your skin was itching,


burning with a yearning to sense mine,


to explore and to learn, to create something sublime.


To, hopefully, inevitably slowly intertwine.


And just as we started the sheets began


to vibrate with a current of electricity


that hummed it’s way into us and spun


the bed spiritedly on the ceiling.


It was magic and


I couldn’t catch my breath


as you smiled, writhing yourself into my neck.


You asked to sleep with me but


you had no intentions of sleep, instead


you curled your fingers around my thighs


and whispered for me to gently spread.


As I did our lips danced between kisses and grins


and my whimpers twirled chaotically into your laughter .


and I knew each moment I was unraveling faster and faster


but I excused the present and would worry about the detriments after.


At that moment I just wanted the giggles.


I just wanted the escape of air,


the shimmer of lightheartedness


as if the pain in the past had never been there.


But it couldn’t be that simple and I should have been aware


of the intoxicating effects that you were breathing into the air.


If I’d left my mind outside and listened to my senses


I would have been better prepared


for the repercussions that would transpire


during this intimate affair,


for the professions I’d confess that I never meant to declare.


Because as my laughter grew louder so did my fucking heart


and between gasps of breath I uttered words of priceless value.



“I love you” poured from the depths of my river and began to drown you


in silence. You didn’t respond because there was no comprehension of how to.


And I could never blame you


because in my head I was just as confused.


But I had said the words and I’d said them to you


and I tasted them on my lips as they cascaded through.


Like every flavor of every fruit


mixed with pop rocks, I savored the traces of “I love you”.


And you may have gone silent but your face spoke to me.


The exertion from your orgasm left you vulnerable and on your knees.


I had said the words I love you and then you came in me.


You asked to sleep with me


but you had no intentions of sleep.


You kissed the top of my crazy head full of my crazy thoughts,


an act of compassion, of acceptance I’ve always sought,


a lesson in intimacy that I needed to be taught.


And then as my hands were lost somewhere under the covers


your fingers began to hunt like lonely, longing, lovers


until they grasped mine and then we grasped each other.


You asked to sleep with me


but you had no intention of sleep.


You laid there memorizing


while I laid on your chest to dream.


You wondered and you imagined


as you watched and idolized


and I am amazed by my delicate crystal


reflection coming from your eyes.


You asked to sleep with me and finally


you closed your eyes knowing what you would dream of


and I laid there in idyllic marvel as we both drifted off into love.

A REAL MAN

A real man is not a person who can
impregnate a woman; any guy can also
impregnate a woman. Even a 17 year old boy
can impregnate a woman but that does not
make him a man.


A real man is not a person who is good in
bed. Any idiot can be good in bed.


A real man is not a person who beats his
wife/girlfriend. Infact it is only idiots that
beat their women.


A real man is a person who tolerates his
woman


A real man is a person who controls his
anger


A real man is the person who shows real
care and love to his woman


A real man is the person who knows how
to solve the crises and problems in his
relationship


A real man does not beat his woman

A real man is hardworking. He is not lazy

A real man can endure, persevere and be
patient

A real man can overlook the bad
behaviors of his woman


A real man corrects his woman with love.

Real men make their women happy.


Therefore, ladies, when choosing a man, date
real men only.
Marry real men only. If you are not happy in
your relationship now, that means your guy
is not a real man.!
Look beyond sex and money and go for
happiness and peace of mind.