Categories help us to delineate, which in turn helps us to think rationally and communicate clearly. They enable us to collectively make sense of our world. The clarity of the rational mind can be limiting, however. Merely talking of “our world” gives us a sense of separation between the self, what I perceive as “me”, and everything else. Staring at a tree can challenge this notion of separation.

I’ve been thinking a lot today about connectedness, which could be part of the reason I found myself staring at a tree in the first place. The experience has me realizing that a sense of self versus the other is not really a thing.

Consider our physical composition. It is said that we are made up of the material of the stars — literally. Dying stars are where the elements originate. These elements form the organic chemistry of life, the minerals that make up the earth, the minerals that power the electrical currents of our bodies. The earth beneath our feet, the tree I’ve been staring at, my yapping Chihuahua…we are all composed of matter from the same source. In addition, some molecules now present in my body came, not long ago, from the basil plant on my porch.

Leaving the realm of material science, another challenge to the sense of self versus other comes from the tradition of Buddhism. I encountered an exercise, a meditation, that consists of trying to “watch the watcher”. The idea is to sit silently while attempting to observe who is behind the eyes? Can you find this observer? As you search, you realize that this is not possible. When you look for the watcher, there is no one there.

With this in mind, as I stare at the tree, I find that there arises a feeling of closeness. It is almost like zooming in until my sense of self and the essence of the tree merge. There is a sense of communion between beings, something beyond but also inclusive of our material selves. It might sound a bit like I’ve crossed over into crazy town, but I encourage you to take a moment this week to let yourself go. Try to observe the observer and realize there is no one there. Stare at a tree and experience that we are all one. Feel the ground beneath your feet, looking up at the night sky and feel the past, the present, the future of all life.

Blessed be.

Rivers flow—it’s what they do. Arguably, that’s what they’re best at. There are spots along the river where the flowing comes to an almost deafening stillness, as the river widens and deepens. Other times, it becomes shallow, forming riffles over the river stones. Upstream, there are roaring rapids and even a waterfall.This time of year, the river warms and shallows, allowing for the river-lovers to slowly drift by—most notably the rafting humans. This brings out the child in everyone, from the frolicking rafters to the petulant child in me that sometimes roots for the occasional raft to magically deflate as it’s rowdy crew passes by!

This time of year, the river warms and shallows, allowing for the river-lovers to slowly drift by—most notably the rafting humans. This brings out the child in everyone, from the frolicking rafters to the petulant child in me that sometimes roots for the occasional raft to magically deflate as it’s rowdy crew passes by! 

There are other river-lovers as well. The wood ducklings are nearly grown up now. Their behavior is only way you can tell who is a parent and who is a duckling—namely who seems to be herding whom. One of their favorite activities seems to be swimming. They love to plunge underneath the water as a group, then will pop up randomly as they swim from one bank to the other. Unlike the rowdy tubers, the urge to ruin the wood ducks’ day never crosses even my petulant mind. Their quiet gestures and the occasional low quacking sounds are just about the best thing about sitting riverside!

That’s the thing about the river. It keeps flowing by whether we like it or not. It brings placid, tranquil times as well as roaring, scary, overwhelming, churning rapids. It brings the most endearing pleasant beings that quack their way right into my heart…and also caravans of rowdy tubers with empty beer cans trailing in their wake. It’s not good or bad; it just is. If I tried to stop the flow, I would fail. I’d just struggle, wasting all my energy, and still would have to face whatever unpleasantness is floating past. 

Instead, today I sit here breathing, accepting what comes along the ever-changing stream. Not getting caught up in the story of my judging mind, not trying to change or ignore what comes along, but opening up my mind to experience the sounds, the sites, the sense of oneness with the river—and yes, even with those pesky humans floating by. Knowing that whatever experience comes along—however pleasant or unpleasant, short or seemingly endless—is just passing by. And in this way, I rest on the riverbank. In this way, I find the energy of this place that was here all along.