The Tree Above the Clouds
I do not remember when I began climbing.
I do not remember the first branch, or the ground I must have left behind, or what made me climb in the first place.
Dreams are like that.
They do not begin. They simply discover you already inside them.
The tree was enormous.
Its trunk was so wide that I could not see where it ended on either side of me. Its bark was the colour of something between pink and burnt orange, glowing softly in the strange light. Great branches stretched away from the trunk, one above another, disappearing into the clouds.
I was already very high.
I could not see the ground.
I stood comfortably upon one of the branches, my back resting against the trunk. The branch was broad enough to walk upon, and from it hung enormous fruits. They resembled pumpkins, though their skins were a deep, luminous pink-orange. Most of them grew toward the far ends of the branches, hanging like heavy lanterns from wooden beams.
Birds flew nearby.
I watched them for a while and wondered how high I must have climbed.
Then I looked upward.
The tree continued through the clouds.
I could not see its crown.
There were no smaller branches, no leaves, no flowers. Only the enormous trunk and those long, impossible limbs reaching into the white.
The next branch was just within reach.
I laughed softly.
I do not know why.
Perhaps because there was nothing else to do.
I stretched out my hands, caught the higher branch, and pulled myself upward.
It was easy.
The next branch was exactly like the one below.
The same smooth, warm bark.
The same strange fruits hanging from it.
The same silence.
I looked down.
The branch I had left was already becoming blurred by mist.
So I climbed again.
And again.
With every branch, the world below disappeared further into the clouds.
Soon the light changed.
The tree seemed to pass through a layer of cloud, and when I climbed beyond it, there were clouds beneath me and clouds above me.
The birds were gone.
Far below, tiny kites drifted beneath the clouds like coloured specks.
The sun was setting.
Its crimson light poured across the sky and struck the great fruits, turning them almost white-hot at their edges.
They looked like pots of fire hanging from the branches.
That was when I noticed something.
Some of the fruits had holes in them.
Not cracks.
Holes.
Dark little openings in their sides.
And through them I could see the soft, wet flesh inside.
Juicy.
Rich.
Alive.
I was wondering who might eat them when I heard something.
A tiny scratching.
Then another.
I turned.
The trunk beside me was not solid.
There was a hole in it, almost like the mouth of a small cave.
Two red eyes appeared inside.
Then a white nose.
Then a rabbit.
It came out cautiously, followed by another.
Then another.
Soon I realised there was an entire family living inside the tree.
They were pure white, with bright red eyes.
The smallest rabbits hurried along the branch, hopping from one place to another, stopping only to bite into the strange fruits.
They ate greedily.
They drank the juice.
And they seemed happy.
There was no fear in them.
No hesitation.
They knew the branch.
They knew the cave.
They knew the fruits.
They knew the sky.
This was their world.
They had never seen the ground.
Perhaps they had never imagined there was a ground.
They moved about with the careless joy of creatures who have never been given a reason to be afraid.
I watched them.
Their parents did not watch the sky.
They watched their children.
The young rabbits chased one another along the branch, their little feet tapping against the bark.
One climbed into a fruit.
Another pulled at a stem.
The smallest one found a particularly ripe fruit and began eating.
Then it slipped.
For one impossible moment, it hung in the air.
Its tiny paws reached for the branch.
Then it fell.
I moved forward instinctively.
But I was too far away.
The little rabbit dropped into the white clouds below.
Just before the mist swallowed it, it looked upward.
I saw its eyes.
There was no terror in them.
No surprise.
No joy.
Only the stillness of not knowing.
And, perhaps, a tiny sadness.
Not sadness at death.
It could not know what death was.
Perhaps it was sadness at leaving the others behind.
Then the cloud closed over it.
It was gone.
The other rabbits looked over the edge.
They did not understand.
After a while, one of the older rabbits returned to eating.
The others followed.
Life continued.
There was nowhere else for it to go.
I understood then that the rabbits had no idea they lived above an abyss.
They did not know there was a world beneath the clouds.
They did not know the tree had roots.
They did not know the tree had a top.
They did not know that the branch on which they lived was only one small place in something immeasurably larger.
Their ignorance was a kind of protection.
They could not fear the depth because they could not imagine falling.
They could not fear the unknown because everything was unknown.
So they lived.
They ate the sweet flesh of the fruits.
They slept inside the warm hollow of the trunk.
They watched the colours of the sky change.
They raised their young.
And sometimes, one of them disappeared into the clouds.
And the others carried on.
I stayed with them for a long time.
Then I looked upward.
Above me, more branches emerged from the clouds.
They disappeared again into a higher whiteness.
I looked once more at the rabbit family.
The little ones were playing.
The old ones were eating.
The sky was turning darker.
For a moment, I wondered if I should stay.
Perhaps this was enough.
Perhaps the purpose of climbing was not to reach the top.
Perhaps the purpose was simply to find a branch where one could rest.
But something inside me pulled upward.
I reached for the next branch.
My fingers closed around it.
And I pulled myself through the clouds.
Behind me, the rabbits continued their lives.
Ahead of me, the tree continued into the unknown.
And somewhere beneath the clouds, far below where I could see, was a world I had forgotten.
Or perhaps—
a world I had never known.
I do not remember the first branch, or the ground I must have left behind, or what made me climb in the first place.
Dreams are like that.
They do not begin. They simply discover you already inside them.
The tree was enormous.
Its trunk was so wide that I could not see where it ended on either side of me. Its bark was the colour of something between pink and burnt orange, glowing softly in the strange light. Great branches stretched away from the trunk, one above another, disappearing into the clouds.
I was already very high.
I could not see the ground.
I stood comfortably upon one of the branches, my back resting against the trunk. The branch was broad enough to walk upon, and from it hung enormous fruits. They resembled pumpkins, though their skins were a deep, luminous pink-orange. Most of them grew toward the far ends of the branches, hanging like heavy lanterns from wooden beams.
Birds flew nearby.
I watched them for a while and wondered how high I must have climbed.
Then I looked upward.
The tree continued through the clouds.
I could not see its crown.
There were no smaller branches, no leaves, no flowers. Only the enormous trunk and those long, impossible limbs reaching into the white.
The next branch was just within reach.
I laughed softly.
I do not know why.
Perhaps because there was nothing else to do.
I stretched out my hands, caught the higher branch, and pulled myself upward.
It was easy.
The next branch was exactly like the one below.
The same smooth, warm bark.
The same strange fruits hanging from it.
The same silence.
I looked down.
The branch I had left was already becoming blurred by mist.
So I climbed again.
And again.
With every branch, the world below disappeared further into the clouds.
Soon the light changed.
The tree seemed to pass through a layer of cloud, and when I climbed beyond it, there were clouds beneath me and clouds above me.
The birds were gone.
Far below, tiny kites drifted beneath the clouds like coloured specks.
The sun was setting.
Its crimson light poured across the sky and struck the great fruits, turning them almost white-hot at their edges.
They looked like pots of fire hanging from the branches.
That was when I noticed something.
Some of the fruits had holes in them.
Not cracks.
Holes.
Dark little openings in their sides.
And through them I could see the soft, wet flesh inside.
Juicy.
Rich.
Alive.
I was wondering who might eat them when I heard something.
A tiny scratching.
Then another.
I turned.
The trunk beside me was not solid.
There was a hole in it, almost like the mouth of a small cave.
Two red eyes appeared inside.
Then a white nose.
Then a rabbit.
It came out cautiously, followed by another.
Then another.
Soon I realised there was an entire family living inside the tree.
They were pure white, with bright red eyes.
The smallest rabbits hurried along the branch, hopping from one place to another, stopping only to bite into the strange fruits.
They ate greedily.
They drank the juice.
And they seemed happy.
There was no fear in them.
No hesitation.
They knew the branch.
They knew the cave.
They knew the fruits.
They knew the sky.
This was their world.
They had never seen the ground.
Perhaps they had never imagined there was a ground.
They moved about with the careless joy of creatures who have never been given a reason to be afraid.
I watched them.
Their parents did not watch the sky.
They watched their children.
The young rabbits chased one another along the branch, their little feet tapping against the bark.
One climbed into a fruit.
Another pulled at a stem.
The smallest one found a particularly ripe fruit and began eating.
Then it slipped.
For one impossible moment, it hung in the air.
Its tiny paws reached for the branch.
Then it fell.
I moved forward instinctively.
But I was too far away.
The little rabbit dropped into the white clouds below.
Just before the mist swallowed it, it looked upward.
I saw its eyes.
There was no terror in them.
No surprise.
No joy.
Only the stillness of not knowing.
And, perhaps, a tiny sadness.
Not sadness at death.
It could not know what death was.
Perhaps it was sadness at leaving the others behind.
Then the cloud closed over it.
It was gone.
The other rabbits looked over the edge.
They did not understand.
After a while, one of the older rabbits returned to eating.
The others followed.
Life continued.
There was nowhere else for it to go.
I understood then that the rabbits had no idea they lived above an abyss.
They did not know there was a world beneath the clouds.
They did not know the tree had roots.
They did not know the tree had a top.
They did not know that the branch on which they lived was only one small place in something immeasurably larger.
Their ignorance was a kind of protection.
They could not fear the depth because they could not imagine falling.
They could not fear the unknown because everything was unknown.
So they lived.
They ate the sweet flesh of the fruits.
They slept inside the warm hollow of the trunk.
They watched the colours of the sky change.
They raised their young.
And sometimes, one of them disappeared into the clouds.
And the others carried on.
I stayed with them for a long time.
Then I looked upward.
Above me, more branches emerged from the clouds.
They disappeared again into a higher whiteness.
I looked once more at the rabbit family.
The little ones were playing.
The old ones were eating.
The sky was turning darker.
For a moment, I wondered if I should stay.
Perhaps this was enough.
Perhaps the purpose of climbing was not to reach the top.
Perhaps the purpose was simply to find a branch where one could rest.
But something inside me pulled upward.
I reached for the next branch.
My fingers closed around it.
And I pulled myself through the clouds.
Behind me, the rabbits continued their lives.
Ahead of me, the tree continued into the unknown.
And somewhere beneath the clouds, far below where I could see, was a world I had forgotten.
Or perhaps—
a world I had never known.
41-45, M