How Does a Tree Pray? I & II

What the Trees are Teaching Me

How does a tree pray?

It does not bargain with heaven,
nor search for the perfect words.
It knows a deep seeded liturgy,
the one written
into bark and branch,
sap and leaf.

Its prayer
is simply this:
to be a tree.

It lifts unhurried branches
toward the unseen,
not to seize the sky,
but to receive it.

Its leaves
soak in the light
as every dawn
is a blessing
still being spoken.

Its roots descend
into the hidden world,
finding streams
no eye has seen,
drawing from dark places
the water of life.

Rain becomes growth.
Silence becomes strength.
Winter becomes wisdom.
Wind becomes song.

It does not resist
the holy rhythm
of budding,
flowering,
bearing,
letting go,
and waiting again.

Every season
is another form
of Amen.

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The tree reminds me
that prayer is not always
something I say.

Sometimes
prayer is the shape
my soul takes
when it remembers
who it was created to be.

Perhaps holiness
is less about striving
than consenting
to be rooted.

Perhaps contemplation
is not escaping the earth,
but inhabiting it
so completely
that heaven
finds us here.

The tree knows this.

Its crown touches sky,
its roots feel dirt,
and it refuses
to choose between them.

It stands where
earth meets heaven.

Without speaking,
it blesses birds,
welcomes weary travelers,
holds nests,
casts shade,
and gives itself away
without keeping account.

This, too,
is prayer.

When at last
I grow quiet enough,
I hear the tree’s homily
rustling above me:

“Do not try so hard
when it comes to prayer.
Receive the light.
Drink deeply.
Be present where Love has planted you.

Reach.
Root.
Rest.

All else
is God’s work.”