In the cycle of Life

In the Cycle of Life

By: John Kazerooni 

Once, in the quiet breath of time, I was born—not as a voice or creature, but as a seed. Small and unassuming, I held within me the promise of life. The wind, kind and wild, carried me through the open sky and laid me gently near a murmuring stream. There, I took root. The stream sang day and night, its rhythm becoming my lullaby. I grew beside it, nourished by its flowing water, warmed by the sun above, and surrounded by the songs of birds that danced through the branches of time.

As seasons passed, I became a tree—firm in the earth, tall against the sky, and calm in my presence. I lived in harmony with the stream, its music blending with the whisper of my leaves. It was a peaceful life, and I was content to simply be.

But I was not alone. A man began to visit me. Day after day, he would come and sit beneath my growing branches. The sun, bold and unrelenting in the summer sky, blazed down upon him. And so, I opened my canopy wide. I extended my shade with quiet purpose, giving him shelter under my leafy shed to protect him from the scorching sunlight. I became his refuge. When he lay down to rest, I moved my leaves gently in the wind, stirring the air to cool him. My branches arched like arms around him, offering comfort without asking for anything in return.

Our companionship was wordless yet real. In my shade, he shared his secrets. I became the silent guardian of his thoughts, his fears, his joys. He trusted me without knowing me. He spoke freely beneath my boughs, never wondering if I listened. And yet, I heard it all. I knew every story he told, every memory he carried. I knew everything about him—and he knew nothing about me.

Then one day, when my soul was at peace, when I felt no ache or weight of time, he returned—not with words, but with a saw. Without hesitation, he cut me down. My trunk, once strong and proud, fell to the ground. My limbs, once spread to shield him, were now broken into pieces. He took me home. It was winter, and he needed warmth.

He placed me in his hearth and fed me to the fire. I burned slowly, flame by flame, crackling into glowing embers. As I turned to ash, I did not mourn. But I did wonder.

In the quiet flicker of the flames, I asked myself: Who will sit with him in silence now? Who will stretch their arms wide to shield him from the scorching sun? Who will listen to his unspoken fears, and offer comfort without judgment or interruption?

He had never known my name, yet I had known the weight of his secrets. Now, as I faded into dust and warmth, I worried for him—not in bitterness, but in love. My greatest sorrow was not that I was ending, but that he might now walk the world without a protector, without a place to rest his head in peace.

Would the wind soothe him as I once did? Would another tree take my place? Or would he learn, perhaps too late, what it meant to be gently held by something that asked for nothing in return?

These were the thoughts that drifted with me as I became ash—not regrets, but quiet questions born of care.

Yet life is not so easily ended. In my final transformation, I became ash. And he, not knowing the cycle he had stepped into, scattered my remains into his garden. There, I found new purpose. My ashes fed the soil, strengthened the roots, and stirred life in seeds beneath the earth. I became the spirit of new plants, the breath of new leaves.

And when he harvested from his garden—when he picked the herbs and vegetables that grew strong and green—I returned to him. Through his meal, I entered his body. I was no longer his shade, no longer his protector from the sun, but something deeper. I became part of him, woven into his being.

I felt no bitterness—I understood it was simply part of life’s natural cycle.

Because this is the rhythm of existence—the cycle of life that holds us all. From seed to tree, from shelter to ash, from fire to earth, and from earth to nourishment, we are transformed again and again. We do not control the sequence. We are simply participants in its mysterious, beautiful order.

We are born. We give. We fall. We rise again—not always in the same form, but always with purpose. And in that silent rhythm, we belong to something greater than ourselves.

Lingering Questions in My Mind:

Do we truly recognize and appreciate the silent beings that give us shelter, comfort, or peace in our lives?

How often do we take without understanding what we are taking from?

When something or someone no longer serves us in the same way, do we discard them—or honor what they’ve given?

What does it mean to live a life of giving without being seen?

Can destruction also be a form of transformation?

How do we continue to exist—through memory, through legacy, or perhaps, through others?

In the grand cycle of life, are we more connected than we believe?

Click on the link https://sites.google.com/view/johnkaz to explore Tapestry of My Thoughts

Medium Readers

Click on the link https://medium.com/@iselfschooling to explore Tapestry of My Thoughts