I approach the tree.
Not as a symbol.
Not as a being from which I ask something.
Only as a living organism,
present here.
As ordinary as I am.
The tree stands.
I arrive.
There is nothing special between us yet.
Only space.
Air.
Earth.
Two living nodes,
each in its own body.
Before I come closer,
I set down part of my holding.
Not in order to open.
Not in order to feel something.
Only so that my body
does not arrive as a demand.
Weight moves downward.
The pelvis returns to the ground.
The feet stop standing on the surface of the world.
Through itself,
the body
touches more deeply.
Beneath us is the same Earth.
Not mine.
Not its.
Our common Mother.
Through her,
my body turns toward the tree
without asking.
Without interpretation.
Without needing a response.
I offer a field.
Not from the heart as emotion.
Not from the mind as intention.
From a body
that is no longer holding its boundary
as a defence.
And I wait.
Not for a sign.
Not for an answer.
Not for confirmation
that something has happened.
I wait in such a way
that the tree does not have to respond.
Sometimes the field remains closed.
And that is all.
The tree remains a tree.
I remain a human being.
The Earth bears us both.
And sometimes
the space between us
begins to fill.
Not with a message.
Not with a feeling.
Not with meaning.
More like a quiet connectedness
between two living organisms
that no longer need to defend themselves
from one another.
Then I stand.
With my whole body.
Without demand.
Without interpretation.
Without needing to know
what is happening.
The tree is here.
I am here.
The Earth is beneath us.
And in that,
it is enough
to rest.