The abundance of nothing
Today, on my evening walk, I re-encountered this tree in someone’s front yard. This is my fourth visit to San Francisco, and I have never, in any of my visits and the evening strolls I take in them, have seen this tree in bloom. It seems forever barren, not in a sad-heartbreaking way rather in a fascinating mien.
I cannot tell what species it belongs to. Just by its sheer magnanimity, I am assuming it's an Oak. This single log of a tree, with not a single leaf, stands as tall as a national monument. It’s branches, both the thick and the thin ones, stretch their palms so intricately towards the sky as if they are weaving the big blue blanket above them, inch by inch. And God forbid, if they were to change their mind mid-way, the whole heaven would come down collapsing. The frontward where this tree lives, has no other companion or neighbour. There are small shrubs at it’s foot, others succeeding just enough to reach its ankle. At first, one might feel dispirited by its bareness, like an old big mansion that stands abandoned—No nest upon which a humming bird might find a summer solace, no rustling of leaves keeping the chirp and chatter alive and no flowers whose fragrance chase the bees and the butterflies.
Yet it has a certain charm, the kind Monks have when they are meditating. You don’t see them as lonely, rather you admire their ability to dwell upon their solitude with an ease. This tree has that Monk like quality. It knows how to be still and content. A combination we humans often aspire to, seldom reach.
However, each time I have passed it by and especially, after gawking at it, for a good ten minutes this evening, it nudged me to think of the people in my life who this tree represents. Those who with their minimal, conventional glories still stand upright and amaze the hell out of the world. Those who even in their undistinguished survival, command our admiration and evoke our awe. There were a few names I could think of. And some who would make it to the list in just a few years. I had a full conversation about each one of them with this tree, all in my head. I wish it could respond or perhaps it did. You see, my tree language isn’t that developed as yet. I might have missed a gentle nod of a branch when I spoke passionately about a friend who made being vulnerable look as easy as breathing. Recounting how his void was also of value. He never made the autumn feel like a treacherous act or the spring the only time joy could be experienced. I have been in the thick of winters in his life and yet not felt the urgent need to light a bonfire. Running his hand of acknowledgement on the trodden and the cocooned, the dull and the daunting, he makes it part of the process. What is that? I often wondered.
Acceptance, I now understand.
Denial always digs up a grave for two—our present and our future. It makes the struggle (if I may call it that) more charred and ruthless. It turns a battle into a war. It’s associated directly with discomfort. What if one made peace with who they were or how they were and then, spent all the time to cultivate its truth and celebrate its glory? This tree seems to be on the path. It’s the Guru and the disciple. It's adequately self-aware to know that its colours are seasonal, but its existence isn’t. Instead of spending time longing for the arrival of maytime, it has manifested a stand-alone persona that can be applauded by itself through the January cold.
Sometimes, nothing doesn’t mean nothing. It means something or everything, if you are willing to indulge and understand that is. Our emptiness holds space, not as a refuge for other emotions to occupy, but for itself to grow and heal and exist. It needs to breathe, the invisible air of pride and self-love. It needs to feel like a home too, not merely a transit camp.
We need more analogies and reminders, like this lavishly outlined tree, that luxury is not having it all but having some with undiminished satisfaction.