We depend on our roots to know where we come from,
to understand our heritage and be thankful for it.
We require roots to stand firm.
In times of storm and thunder,
where greater powers want to tear us
and shake us, we stay strong.
We need roots to keep both feet on the ground.
In glory times, where dreams come true
and the world is at our feet,
we remember who we are and feel gratitude for what we have.
The wings but we need to dream, to not settle.
With our wings, we can imagine what is possible and we can rise to it.
In our wings we can trust, so we never need to be afraid.
Just like the bird, who sits on a branch and is never afraid of it breaking,
because her trust is not in the branch, but in her own wings.
In a free-fall world of bittersweet gypsy wandering, they make me feel grounded.
They all seem to be connected in some way beyond their roots.
Not only to their fellow trees but to the whole of nature, and our entire, lonely human race.
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.
i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric bulb
and fry himself on the wires
why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense
plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with routine
and crave beauty
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves
and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself
The moth, to shed it’s
Dreary life of darkness
For warmth and light
As it circumambulates in flight
It is filled with light and might
When being around light
Becomes too much delight
Wants to plunge straight
Into this light delight
Then thinks, when me ‘am
Willing to burn in him
He stands straight
To be bright
And the flame speaks
O’ ye of meager flight
Yet to know, burning bright
It is me that burns through the night
Waiting for a moth of
To make him bright and light.
Pythagoras described the indivisible Unity lying behind all manifestation as "No Number," in this way repeating the statement in the Stanzas of Dzyan that "there is neither first nor last, for all is one: number issued from no number." The plane above, therefore, can be indicated only by the nought or Circle, which Pythagoras said is the most appropriate symbol of Divinity.
On the plane below, the Monad or first number appears, and from this number the geometry of the universe emerges. Pythagoras called the Monad, or One, the first odd and therefore divine number. It is through the misinterpretation of the Pythagorean Monad that the various "personal Gods" of the different religions arose, most of whom are represented as a Trinity. In the phenomenal world the Monad becomes the apex of the manifested equilateral triangle, or the "Father." The left line of the triangle becomes the Duad or "Mother." This represents the origin of all the contrasts in nature, the point at which the roads of good and evil bifurcate. This being the case, the Pythagoreans are said to have "hated" the Binary. Considering the number Two as a representation of the law of polarity, they stressed its positive aspect by entering a temple on the right side and by putting on the right shoe first. The right line of the triangle represents the "Son," described in every ancient cosmogony as one with the apex or "Father." The line at the base of the triangle stands for the universal plane of productive nature, in which "Father-Mother-Son" are unified on the phenomenal plane as they were united in the supersensuous world by the apex.
The triangle is the most profound of all geometrical symbols. As a cosmic symbol representing the Higher Trinity of the universe it became the root of the word Deity. The ancient Greeks called the letter D (the triangular delta) "the vehicle of the Unknown Deity." The Boeotians wrote the word Zeus with a delta, from which came the Latin Deus. The triangle is also a basic form in Nature. When the molecules of salt deposit themselves as a solid, the first shape they assume is that of a triangle. A flame is triangular in shape; hence, the word pyramid from the Greek pyr, or fire. The triangle is also the form assumed by the pine, the most primitive tree after the fern period.
The Pythagoreans called the number Four the "Key-bearer of Nature." As a cosmic symbol it represents the universe as chaotic matter before being informed by Spirit. The cross made by the intersection of the vertical line of Spirit and the horizontal line of matter represents spiritual man crucified in the flesh, while the four-pointed star is a symbol of the animal kingdom.
The five-pointed star, the pentacle, is the symbol of man, not only of the physical man with his four limbs and head, but also of conscious, thinking man, whose fifth principle is Manas. The Pythagoreans associated the number Five with the fifth element, Ether. They called Five the "beam of the balance," which suggests the power of choice and perhaps the final "moment of choice" for our humanity in the middle of the Fifth Round.
The number six illustrates the six directions of extension of all solid bodies. The interlaced triangles picture the union of spirit and matter, male and female. The Pythagoreans considered this number as sacred to Venus, since "the union of the two sexes, and the spagyrisation of matter by triads are necessary to develop the generative force ... which is inherent in all bodies." (Rayon: Potency of the Pythagorean Triangles.)
Pythagoras called seven a perfect number, making it the basis for "Music of the Spheres." Regarding seven as a compound of three and four, he gave a twofold account of its meaning: On the noumenal plane the triangle is Father-Mother-Son, or Spirit, while the quaternary represents the ideal root of all material things; applied to man, the triangle represents his three higher principles, immortal and changeless, while the quaternary refers to the four lower principles which are in unstable flux. Seven not only governs the periodicity of the phenomena of life on the physical plane, but also dominates the series of chemical elements, as well as the world of sound and color, as shown by the spectroscope.
The Pythagoreans called the number eight "Justice." In that symbol we find an expression of the eternal spiral motion of cycles, the regular inbreathing and outbreathing of the Great Breath. They called the number nine the "Ocean" and the "Horizon," as all numbers are comprehended by and revolve within it. If we consult the Table of the Yugas on page 125 of The Ocean of Theosophy, we shall observe that all the figures may be resolved into the number nine.
Ten, or the Decade, brings all these digits back to unity, ending the Pythagorean table. In both the Microcosm and the Macrocosm the three higher numbers of the Decade stand for the invisible and metaphysical world, while the lower seven refer to the realm of physical phenomena.