I will be king /And you /You will be queen
Though nothing will / Drive them away
We can beat them /Just for one day
We can be Heroes
Just for one day
– bowie

A man sits down on the grass to tell a story about a tree.  A tree may not seem like much of a topic but with a little observation everyone realizes there is a lot to learn about a tree.  Over the weeks, months and years the man keeps extolling the virtues of the tree.  He describes every overlooked detail, and points out every new branch and every falling leaf.  In time some began to think he most know everything there is to know about a tree.  Of course he knew that was far from the truth.

Meanwhile time is passing. Others are also telling their stories of trees. More and more every day it seemed. Some having amazing new stories.  They talk of trees that grow in places no one had ever been, and doing things that no one could have ever imagined a tree could do.  Some simply tell the stories already told.  I mean, there is only so much to tell about a tree.

Many years pass and one day the man looks around.  He thinks to himself that it seems there are more people talking about the trees, than those listening. Maybe even more than the number of the trees themselves! “The singing of the birds and the quiet rustling of the leaves it becoming lost in the din of those talking about them”, he thought.  He wondered if anyone is actually looking at trees anymore, if anyone is actually experiencing the rough texture of the bark.  “Is it possible that the telling has become more real to some than the trees themselves?” he wonders.  Of course the moment passes and once again the man goes back to telling those who have gathered around the story of the tree.  The tree he had watched grow over so, so many years.

One day while telling an amazing story extolling the advantage of beating the bark of a young tree with a stick, he suddenly became lost. He stopped. The noise of the crowd suddenly seemed so oppressive and overpowering.  He suddenly forgot if the story he was telling was his or if it had drifted into his mind from all the many stories now swirling on the wind.  Then a thought suddenly grew out of  the pause and wrapped around his mind like muslin.  “A tree is simply a tree.” he thought, “It’s amazing and beautiful, a foundation of nature and a metaphor of all that is important in life… But still,” he paused. “It is only a tree.  There are flowers and birds. Mountains & oceans. Surely they have something to tell us as well. Surely there is more to life than even this beautiful tree.”  He smiled unaware that he had become lost in his own thoughts.

Now all this time those who had gathered to listen to him tell stories of trees  waited and wondered why he had become silent. He had become silent for so long in fact that some had got up and walked over to listen to other storytellers.  Some began to tell their own stories.  Some waited while others simply walked away all together.

In time the man seemed to return to his senses.  He looked down at those still gathered around him.  Again he smiled. Then he stood up and after a moments pause, he began to walk away.   Most  just simply sat  in quiet wonderment and watched him go away.

He walked and walked, over a green grassy hill, down into wet valley and through a thorny old raspberry patch.  He walked and walked through forests and farm fields until when the day was almost ended , he came to a sandy beach on a small tiny lake.  He sad down on the damp sand and contemplated the ground beneath him.  He noticed bits of bark and larger pebbles, tiny insects and bubbles rising through little holes. “It’s amazing!”, he thought. “Look at this amazing and diverse world that only from the height of my standing seemed nothing but sand.”  This is an important story he thought.

Lost in his meditation he didn’t notice that one person, (Only one mind you, and not the crowd following sort) had followed him from the time he stood up way back with the others and walked away.  This one person had followed him over the grassy hill and down into wet valley and through a thorny old raspberry patch.  They walked and walked through forests and farm fields quietly lagging behind until finally stopping at the edge of the beach. They sat down and waited.

In time the man looked up feeling that sense that we all at one time or another feel. That sense that we are begin watched.  He looked over at the person sitting on the edge of the beach. He said nothing.  After a few moments the person who followed who was of course, not the following sort drew a short breath and asked nonchalantly, “So, Whatcha think”?

The man grumbled.   He looked out over the distance to the far hill and to the forest beyond.  He listened to the birds signing and the  dry birch leaves clacking in the wind.  He looked up into the blue, blue sky and then motioned this one remaining companion over to join him on the sand.

The man looked down and ran his finger through the sand watching the small golden globes attach themselves to his finger for a moment then peal away. He watched an ant scurry off then disappear into a tiny camouflaged hole.   He licked his lips and rubbed his eyes with a sandy hand.  Finally he began to speak.

A man sits down to tell a story about a beach…

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