Lilith

Look! There goes a young woman in a field of green, dancing and leaping through lilac and nettle alike, she glides across this plateau of life. Observe her stride—her lion-like leap. Behold the speed of her step and the lift in her spring. See there! An orange flower dances deep in her soul, framed by an iris of breathtaking hue. A radiant smile beams from her face and the cool morning breath billows from her warm lungs—see her run! Notice her passionate gate; strong legs flung forth, one after another, in pulchritudinous splendor and glorious purpose.  

What is her quarry? There! Look! A flash of white light; a beautiful stag, every bit the size of his pursuer’s soul! He takes the hill in a stride and the mountain in two—a splash of shimmering silver across his evergreen path. He leads the woman in a sprint of goodness toward a place of purpose: her Tree of Given Life.

The woman follows the stag to her Tree, rejuvenated with every step taken closer to its bark. She is driven towards it by some innately given desire. I must not lose sight of this stag, for he shall lead me to my Tree. And so she presses her feet from the earth, new vigor and joy coursing through her body as she envisions her Tree. What would it look like? What would its soil feel like in her toes? With one step, she imagines resting in a golden shade of leaves, with another, she envisions hanging amongst branches of ivory, bowed to the very earth with succulent fruit. She runs faster.

But look, she crests a slope and stops in a flash. The stag has left the beaten path. There, before her lies a fork in the meadow’s vein; a crossroads; a division of trails. The stag follows the right branch—the original, yet least traveled trail through the meadow—into an open orchard of Trees. She knows her Tree is among them. And yet she hesitates. The stag stops and half turns around, unmoved by the woman’s hesitation. He waits for her to resume her chase. Unbeknownst to the woman, both paths before her lead to her Tree of Given Life, though the one heavily trodden threads round a Mountain first. A moment of silence, a look to her right; our stag standing tall on the threshold of her utmost delight. A look to her left; the whisper of promised adventure riding on the wind. Then, in some indescribable moment of decisive resolve, the woman turns to the left, abandons stag, and follows the beaten trail—away from the orchard of her Tree.

She starts down the left trail, confidence growing in her belly with every step as thoughts of adventure ferment in her soul. Laughing, she continues around the mountain, but no longer running. Her orange flower no longer dances, but blissful is her stride and merry are her thoughts. After all, are not the roots of my tree snuggled deep in the earth? It shan’t go anywhere, and I shall join it soon enough—if indeed I want to at all. I’ve all my life before me and the greatest heights of the world at my feet. My Tree can wait...

And wait it shall.

Now turn your eyes for a moment from the strong woman in her glorious resolve. Look over the hills from whence she came. There, in the flattened grass of her path, in the dewy wake of her carefree stride, an army; a crusade; a throng of children glide—each girl in search of her Tree, each lad in search of his.

See the children come prancing through the meadow and wading through the grass. They come to the crossroads. They look to their Trees. They look to the mountain. They behold the strong woman, what she rejected, and what she embraced. Then after a small hesitation, each child makes a choice. Some follow stag, many follow woman. Those who follow stag are embraced by their Tree; those who follow the strong woman embrace the circumnavigation of a mountain.

The stag stands upon the threshold of the orchard, watching many of the children go, knowing that the detour around the mountain was longer than it seemed. Yet back many shall come after encircling that mountain of adventure and thunder; back to the meadow, back to the green, back to their Trees of Given Life. That thought ended in comfort for him. “Still,” thinks he to himself, “alas that they must go ‘round the mountain to be with what is planted immovable in the meadow.”

And as for the Trees?

Turn your gaze, dear reader, to the orchard and listen. Watch the seasons pass and the Trees of Given Life sway in waiting. See the weep of the Japanese Cherry for the child it never possessed. Hear the creaking pine of the Evergreen, calling to the mountain for its person to be returned on the wind. Feel the countless tears of color, shed by the Maple as a welcoming bed of leaves for one yet to arrive. Smell the decay of the Ash that was felled by a storm ere its person found its shade.

Listen to the Trees and do not shut your ear. Do you hear the joy of the few and the lament of the many?

For here, in this place of beauty, is this cruel and torturous injustice: The Trees with child underwing stand joyfully adjacent to those with empty branches, and the laughter of union is mixed with the mournful silence of solitude.

Rejoice and mourn for the Trees. For some cradle a girl midst their branches and others shelter a boy beneath their leaves, but many, against their own will in the matter, cover naught but untasted fruit fallen to earth.

Now turn your mind’s eye to that Tree on the right. It is shaking with uncontrollable delight. For there, beneath its boughs, a certain someone has just arrived. A woman. Beneath an umbrage of protection, midst the caress of a thousand leaves, her hand extends, wrinkled with the pallor of time and the weather of hardship. It reaches to earth and receives an offered fruit, shakily raising it to lips which are no longer young. The woman leans back against her ecstatic Tree; restful, tired, satisfied, and full of both regret and joy. She would be identical to the other women who arrive every day from their trip around the mountain if not for one, unique trait:

An orange flower dancing in her eyes.