As I peered into the back yard yesterday through the basement door window, thoughts took shape. A certain epiphany, in connection with the purpose of my place in objective and subjective reality, sparked a chain of bewilderment. As I studied the recently butchered Maple–the trunk left, with branches cut away–and the memory of its once, regal brawn, I thought about my place here.

We took the tree down to a shorter height, removing the dead and decaying. The broad trunk and the rooted truth of its existence, remains. As I took the time to observe my physical world in conjunction with the purpose I serve within it, I related to those slowly dying remains…

We move things around while here–shifting and manipulating, in order to find gratification.

Mother earth gives way to our instruction and destruction, never saying a word. Yet, when we are confronted with the two, we speak. We have a voice. Each one of us are rooted, and each one of us form a base that upholds each of our branches. Some of us are rooted in the Creator: the very roots Jesus illustrated. Others grow tired. Two different bases with very different roots. All of us with different branches that confuse the observer.

From one day to the next, I produce these branches that will one day be stripped away. I will leave some sort of foundation for the forthcoming observer. I really cannot say for certain just how truly rooted I am…

Sometimes I wish that I could just grow and thrive upon what nourishes me, like that Maple, and not worry about an afterlife.

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