'A tree is an incomprehensible mystery'.
Our parents are a tree, wounded by past lovers who carved their stories onto them, onto us.
They put into us what many put into them, binding us with people whose greatness we may have never witnessed but our parents' memories run deep in our blood, like roots deep and far into the Earth, surfacing miles and miles away , searching for lost history, nourishing us with it in the form of restraint and love.
An overlap of thoughts and feelings and a past that we (unwillingly) share, like rings inside a trunk, expanding beautiful hieroglyphics.
Reminders.
Though they may appear unmovable in some regards, deep rooted, they still change from season to season, as do the leaves.
From neutral greens to raging reds, their tempers were once as fiery as ours.
And sometimes, it may seem their hearts are encompassed in thick unsightly bark, as if nothing can break them.
You are wrong.
Look more closely at the bark and you will see it is deeply scarred, gnarled in places. Those are the memories that have sculpted them, and will die with them. Sometimes we may miss the more subtle markings, the ones that have been weathered away, making it harder for us to know why our parents are as they are.
We are their ultimate weapon.
Their own fruit can fall at their feet, poisoning and decomposing their faith,
The very ground from which they arose can crumble,
Because of us.
We – the fruit - fall in the same soil as our parents, leeching off them, like newborn parasites. We grow alongside them, drawing nutrients from the same ground, breathing the same air.
But no tree bears bad fruit without hindrance, only broken branches which were never strong enough to hold us up. Even the most perfect fruit can be laced with poison, intended to kill royalty. Society’s winds will sway our parents, bruising our delicate skin, inviting sycophant intentions and cancerous feelings that we may never be able to exude.
Feelings that have burrowed their way so deep, like worms, that there is almost no sign of them externally. They eat at us from the inside, robbing us of our goodness, our unselfish desires, our pureness. It is our parent’s duty to cut out these so called ‘worms’ before they bore their way in to our cores and grow fat, which may hurt us in the process but, spare the rod and corrupt the child.
So be grateful,
As we may bring lightning and storms that can maim and dismantle all that they stand for, uprooting them entirely, or merely causing them to sway as they ultimately stand against the wind…
And they will spit and seep sap that at first glance looks dark and wicked but under the sun, it gleams and glimmers –
The best seeds of advice anyone could subsidize.
