A spark from the cosmos glows bright white.
It exits the common consciousness.
Explores alone through the vacuum of black.
Seeks new knowledge.
Seeks new facts.
An untried existence is spied upon.
Intrigued, it warps along.
Pierces the atmosphere.
Trails through the sky.
It craters the land.
Pods open wide.
Tufts of fluffy stuff spin in the air.
Gardens of life burst out everywhere.
A digger arrives.
Awe sits in his eyes.
See and believe.
That is what they said.
They were right.
It is love, light and delight.
“Ahem” goes the sky.
“Yes, my task” the digger replies.
A spade is in one hand.
It hangs by his side.
Clean, pristine, in dirt it has yet to be baptized.
A root ball in burlap rests on his shoulder.
It is a tree, just a sapling.
He comes to a ledge.
He leaps off the edge.
He lands on the ground.
He looks all around.
This is the place.
He readies his spade.
Planting a tree is a weighty task.
Once planted, it links this being into the common consciousness.
The universe commits.
No matter how black, it will not turn its back.
The tree is a conduit.
Through its leaves the universe gives and this being receives.
That is, if this being chooses to be.
Once planted, this being is burdened to act.
No matter the wounds and there will be many.
No matter the shames and they will be varied.
No matter its beginning, middle or end.
This being has one task.
Seek this tree.
He positions the blade of his spade.
He raises his leg.
The ground shakes.
Geological plates shift.
Pastures of wildflowers wither and brown.
Tufts of fluffy stuff alight.
They fall to the ground.
Flames crawl up the trees, light up the canopies.
Smoke billows, columns and climbs.
Life that was, life that was to become is now ash that blocks out the sun.
“What is happening?” the digger coughs.
“It is the ending” the sky replies.
“Of what?” the digger asks.
“Of this being, of this place, of everything it was to create.”
“No. That cannot be. I am supposed to arrive at the beginning.”
“Sometimes the ending is the beginning.”
“That makes no sense.”
“This is your first dig, correct?”
“There are many kinds of existences. This is just one. On this world, its most recent ones are its most vulnerable ones. They must be held in the hands of others for some time. And, we do not know nor control what those hands will do during that time.”
“I want to plant this tree.”
“You know the decree.”
“Yes” the digger concedes.
“Repeat it back to me, please.”
“All get a spark. Not all get a tree.”
“Remember” the sky instructs “this tree is a conduit. It flows two ways. Through its leaves the universe gives and it receives.”
“And, once planted, we commit.”
“Yes. So, why take the risk?”
“Can this being truly harm the common consciousness?”
“Yes, it can, if it turns black. And, come now, look around, it is already dark grey.”
“But, by following through, we may witness a late bloom.”
Up on the ledge.
Away from the edge.
A struggle for the spark proceeds.
There are wails.
There are cries.
There is a self-sacrifice.
A small globe of gold blasts through the sky.
The digger traces the arc with his eyes.
All goes quiet.
It gets cold.
“Oh, no” the sky goes.
With worry filling his eyes, the digger asks “Is this being going to die?”
“Hold onto the tree. We must prepare for your leave.”
He picks up his spade.
He strikes the ground.
The blade of his spade bends back.
“We are getting you out. Grab a hold of the tree.”
He ignores the sky’s plea.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
The grounds yields a depression.
He spears his spade into the dirt.
He drops to his knees.
He rolls the root ball into its place.
There is no time to center or stand it up straight.
He turns back for his spade.
It is just out of reach.