the trees in the forest

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived a forest of trees.
Oak, Willow, Birch, Fir, Pine.
Alm, Juniper, Beech, Elder, Maple.
Poplar, Yew, Sycamore, Ash, Alder.
More trees than you can ever name.

There was only one of each tree, and each and every tree had their own place in the forest.
The forest was not sparse, neither was it too crowded. It was just so that every single tree had it's own place and was able to grow and stretch its branches without touching another tree.

Below the ground, there lies a deep pool of groundwater which never runs dry. Every tree, as they grow, dipped their roots into the ground water and were ensured of an endless supply of water be it drought or flood above land.

It was also this pool of groundwater that joined the trees together.
For trees could not see. They had no idea which other tree grew next to them above ground.
They had no idea what their neighbour looked like; they do not even know what they themselves looked like.
They never knew how the wind rustling their leaves sounded like.
They never know of the fragrances exuded as their fruits grew and ripened.
But as they dipped their roots into the pool of groundwater, they knew each other.

It was not the knowing of how the gnarled bark of the oak felt like, nor how the willow swayed and bowed in the wind, nor the tangy smell of the pine.
Rather, it was the knowing of the old intelligence of the oak, the liveliness of the birch, the benevolence of the maple, the connivance of the pine, the penetrating understanding of the yew.

Oh how they revelled in this sharing.
How they knew each other well.
How they learned and grew from each other.
Time seemed to stand still in the forest, but oh how it grew.
How it grew in that pool of groundwater.

Then one day, a man arrived.
The first man ever to come to the forest.
He saw the trees. All the different trees in the forest.
He saw the pine tree, and he thought it was good. He liked the pine cones.
He saw the willow tree and he didn't like the look of it swaying in the wind.
He saw the oak and he thought one was enough.
He did not care for the birch or the sycamore or the elder.
Because all he saw was the sight of the trees above the ground.

So he cut away the willow, he chopped down the birch.
He planted rows and rows of pines, all around the lone old oak.

And deep down in the pool of groundwater, there was pain.
Every single time a tree was chopped down, there was pain.
Pain that had never before entered the forest, there was pain now.

The liveliness was lost from the pool of groundwater, ever since the birch was cut down.
And the pines started conniving with each other.
The sedate intelligence of the oak was not able to bring the pool of groundwater back to its old equilibrium.
The fir confided only in the benevolent maple.
Soon there was no more sharing.
Soon oak felt like it never knew pine even though all around oak was planted rows and rows of pines.
Ash missed the birch but was unable to tell elder after it was chopped away.

And aeons passed.
But the pool of groundwater, it no longer runs.
During times of drought, it often ran dry.
And the trees grew alone.
They no longer shared.
They no longer grew together, despite their differences, amidst their differences, prospering because of their differences.
They were different, but they no longer embraced it. They no longer understood it. They no longer revelled in it. They were alone. More alone than ever before.

And yet aeons passed, for time moved slowly in the forest.
The man was no longer there.
The pool of groundwater ran dry.
And slowly, the trees withered and died.
One by one.
In their own loneliness.

Until only the old oak was left.
All alone.
Once he knew every single tree.
Once he understood every one of them.
Once he was one with them all.
Once he knew himself too.
Not how he looked like, not how he felt like, that he never knew.
But once he understood who he was, and believed in that which he was.

But now he has forgotten all that.
Oh how long ago that was.
Was he oak or was he beech? Or perhaps he was maple or perhaps pine.
He cannot be sure.
No, he is not at all certain.

And soon, very soon, a leaf withered upon the oak.
And two leaves, and three.
Soon, there was nothing left but a shrivelled stump of an old oak, a memory that once was.

Nothing now. Nothing at all.