I woke up this morning in a treehouse perched in a friendly, old cedar tree high above a small, green, quirky village-of-sorts. He had sap in his hair. I giggled as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, and I smiled to be near him. I had sap on my pants. I felt a quickening in his presence, and my mind could scarcely keep up with the concepts and topics of our late-night conversation. I pushed pause on my scattered thoughts (I would collect those later), and I silently thanked the cedar for its contribution to this day. Smile. Then breath. I love the way Earth always brings me back to center.
I believe in a Divinity, like that in the cedar tree or in him, that draws all things into Oneness of being, but it's hard not to feel pulled toward one thing over another when we live in a materialized expression of Truth. From the quaint, little Hobbit window of the treehouse I looked down in the yard and saw a large deer—a buck with four points and scraggly fur. He was majestic. As he took a step across the lawn, I noticed he had a limp. It looked excruciating, and I was almost drawn out of the treehouse to help him in some way. Instead, I watched him pass through the village green and into the dahlia fields in the next yard over. I wondered if he would survive the impending winter.
I set out to write a metaphor—I am the wounded deer—or something incredibly prosaic. I feel like the deer at times, tired and weak even in my pertinacious resistance to giving up. This story isn't about me, though. It is simply in honor and reverence to the Spirit of the deer. He, like all sentient things, deserves attention. Let this be his memorial, and may you be reminded of your place in the family of things. As the naturalist John Muir observes, "When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe."