In the Middle of Freedom

I am standing on the surface of a lake, the cool water chilling the bottoms of my feet, my eyes observant as to my surroundings. As I survey the area around the lake, I lay eyes upon a tree with no leaves. I can not see well enough, and I can not tell whether the tree is dead or dying. However, this tree is in the middle of the lake, away from the edges of the shore, where thick brush and life grow; the greenest cacti blossoming with its bright juicy summer fruit, and tall trees heavily supplied with numerous healthy branches and laden with simple yellow flowers. All along the shore of the lake, these gorgeous walls of green grow plentifully, its colors so bright that they reflect like carnival lights upon the water's edge. And yet, there is the simple, two branched tree alone in the middle of the lake, so thin and so barren that it only stands as a mere silhouette in the presence of the setting sun behind it.

My heart drops with pity for the lonely tree, out in the middle of nothing but the vast body of water which surrounds it; bearing nothing beautiful to show off, nothing but the mere bark which keeps it standing once all hint of decoration is violently stripped off. Silently, I make my way towards the tree, each step I take sending ripples throughout the water. Once I reach the tree, I extend my hand out and feel its bark. It is smooth, like a polished kitchen counter, and my hand runs across it quickly, with no struggles or pain. This tree is not dying, and yet, it is not quite alive. Suddenly, it all begins to make sense inside of my brain.

I feel ashamed to have ever pitied the tree as the smooth bark begins to tell its story. For on the shore, the tree was trapped, crowded, unable to move and feel the world and what it meant to everything that lived there. And though it was only on the shore that the beautiful trees lived, filled with blossoming flowers and fruit and the greenest, richest leaves on their branches, this tree had sacrificed all of it so that it may be free. And nobody ever admires that tree. Nobody ever comes to that tree and picks a fruit off its branches. Nobody ever goes to that tree and sits under it for shade, or takes pictures next to it. Nobody ties a swing to the branches of that tree, and nobody gives up their time to climb it. The world never even notices that the tree in the middle of the water is there alone, and still standing, and still hanging on to the small ties of life it has left so that it may experience its freedom. But to this tree, none of it really matters. None of that is important.

And so, I stand next to the tree, and sink down into the lake water, just deep enough so that my toes can touch the bottom and my nose is still above the surface. I stand there, and as I stand there, with the soft ripples of the water gently pulling my body this way and that, and the sun setting right before my eyes, I feel at peace. And nothing else in the world matters anymore when I am standing there in the water, because in this place, right next to this tree as wise as the mountains which tower behind it, I am free.