Ruh Aatish

Rain was playing with its childhood friend, Earth. Sprightly airy dances in reflective hues caught the attention of the Caterpillar. It had awoken from slumber and feasted on heavenly elfish drip-drops. The games of nature are always not meant to be won and losing is a type of solace for the pure-hearted who seek medals in the unknown courts of truth. Aerial thought in earthbound dreams caressed by cool breeze from distant stars, that is the trophy the caterpillar yearned for, and yearning is just a wish passion made to the horizons of hope. The caterpillar yearned…

Muses were tempted and joined in the gentle yet often tempest games. With light-footed magic and dainty tendril touch, they weaved enchanted flower garlands and showered them with tears of joy to sustain each bloom. Slowly the forest was in ecstatic flow and the river foamed with acknowledgement. A forest mouse sleepily raised an eyelid in agitation and ignored the ongoing festivities. It was a dreaming of a greater game. It wanted to go to the city and scurry among the lanes and walkways and learn the ways of the street. Ah! The mouse knew not about world he abided in. What one wants most is usually in front of us, if we want to look, that is. Pastures of lofty aspiration are the ones most frequented. How the Fairies cajoled the mouse into joining the ‘nature’ games, but he did not budge and drifted into his lofty dream-world of steel and bricks. They sighed and shed a golden tear that lay upon the soft supple foliage; a good luck pendant for the mouse. Leaves in confetti bright bursts twinkled in a psychedelic sunlit display of cheery applaud.

Freedom is sweet when mixed with innocence.

And dreams are often almost simple in their innocent charm. The mouse yearned…

Clouds in free spirited happiness clapped and heaved. Sparking jolts of laughter forked the azure skies in bouts of joy. Angels halted and floated down to gaze at nature’s laughter. They were inspired by this gleeful display of freedom and wild rapture. An orchestra of emotions, all drumming and humming in the vast pandemonium. Echoes of a life unlived whispering as low notes, and a life lived as high notes. An unsung song of what always was and always will be- the right to freedom. Nature is the philosopher and the disciple. And springing forth from its bosom is the core of the soul. The center of the highest order. The chaos of peace.

The Angels know well, what appears most chaotic is the most peaceful from higher planes.

They listen to the tumultuous rhythms and find the stillness. The unsung song is sung. And the clouds and skies are tuned but the music is heard only to those that listen to the untuned. The Angels smile. The river watches and sometimes yearns to become a dewdrop when the song is played once more.

And now the river yearned…

The grass was bejeweled with the aftermath of frivolous games, and scattered gems of freedom that sparkled with renewed hope, all senses uplifted. Baby grass had begun weaning on bits of weed.

The weeds teach the baby grass about reality and hardship. About sacrifice and death. The grass learns these lessons imparted by weed and becomes the protecting sheet of earth as green blades that shield unwary creatures from the clutches of calamity. But nothing is invincible and the footprints of time ravage the grass. The tiny ants emerge from their protection to propagate the seeds of the waning grass into newer planes. Nothing perishes without committing itself to a reason. And the reason is always pure when the passing over was true and passionate. A tiny ant wanders out of its territory and as the dragonfly calls out to it in teasing love, it looks up with anguish and yearning and wish it could fly as does the graceful dragonfly. Homeless, lonely and missing its loved ones it runs across the wooded glades in earnest scamper. Why did the grass wane? Why did I loose my way? Why didn’t the dragonfly help me? Why? Why? Why? Tiny why’s, boggling the tiny mind. But nature knew the magnanimity of this tiny upheaval. The tiniest are always the giants of thought. Nature knew well what the why’s meant. The river bubbled in quiet protest, it wanted to help, but the owl on its unseen perch silenced it. The small ant had to find its own answers, and what it sought was in the seeds that lay upon the moist earth, the waning grass and the dark prickly weeds. Time was just a wink away. All watched.

The ant yearned…

A wood Gnome was gathering crimson mushrooms at the brink of twilight truth. Firefly lanterns swayed with the breath of the leaves in soundless motion, and sketched the woods with amber light. Silence is so loud. The Gnome listened to the pitter-patter of feet in fearful walk. Armies of confusion with a battalion of questions, all marching and making the woods tremble with hidden quakes. Those that hear not, hear the best. And the third eye was blinking with anticipation. The Gnome knew the nature of these unheard earthquakes. And with honest kindness, moved towards the approaching army of noise. The ant looks up again and peers into the eyes of the Gnome with pleading moments. While the River, Owl and Mother Nature watch, the Gnome speaks in a language only known to a parallel world. The language of silence and faith. The tiny ant understood, was grateful and walked on with newfound courage.

It could finally find Home. Home was just a faith away, only if one believes. And believing is never easy when faith is void. The ant dreamed now, and dreams are the insignias of believers.

The ant yearned no more.

Look out for more continuing journeys, or better still, add some of your own….. we each must share worlds, to understand life better. This journey began through friendship, common goals, and love for nature. Always be sure to visit www.treesouls.com and protect our greatest gift, Earth.

Ansul/Soul-Fire 2000