Parable of the Bidirectional Tree
Once, in the days when MossyMonk86 lived hidden, deep in the wildwood, a Seeker, weary from long travels and burdened by the weight of unspoken questions, came upon his hovel. The holy fool was perched like an owl in the lower branches of a gnarled oak, his tattered robe fluttering in the breeze, eyes glowing beneath his deep cowl. It wasn’t clear, from the ground, whether he was praying, or if he was basking in the sun, like some kind of human solar panel.
“O wise one,” called the Seeker, “I am torn between two paths. My heart yearns to explore new things and set off on new adventures, yet my mind clings to the familiar. How can I move forward when I feel pulled in opposite directions?”
Mossymonk86 gazed down at the Seeker, his graying beard swaying like Spanish moss in a haunted bayou. “Ah,” he intoned, his voice a curious blend of gravel and honey, “you seek the wisdom of the Bidirectional Tree.” He cackled with delight, a sound like pebbles tumbling down a xylophone. “What serendipitous fortune! In fact, I lived as a dendrite in that very tree for… oh, a good five, six months. Didn’t quite agree with me, I confess. My synapses were all aflutter, and I developed a most peculiar habit of sprouting leaves every full moon!”
He stroked his beard thoughtfully, and a small twig fell out. “Come to think of it, there’s still a bird or two with whom I am a sworn enemy. They find me from time to time and peck at my eyes and fingernails! I’ve taken to wearing a colander as a helmet when I sleep. I’ve also tried painting my toenails to look like berries … then they leave my eyes alone, but I have to keep my feet hidden or else I’ll provoke an avian feeding frenzy!”
He laughed in a self-pleased staccato, like the cawing of a raven with hiccups. Then he stopped abruptly, his suddenly a mask of seriousness. “Listen closely, my child,” he said, “for the cosmos whispers its secrets to those who have ears to hear. And occasionally, it sends a text message, but the roaming charges are astronomical.”
The monk slid down the trunk, landing with a soft thud. “And come to think of it, I once tried to eavesdrop on the universe using a giant conch shell as a cosmic telephone. All I heard was the sound of my own confusion… and something that suspiciously resembled a pizza delivery order for the Great Beyond.”
He began to trace intricate patterns in the dirt with a gnarled stick, his voice shrouded in the mystical darkness of a parable.
“Once, in the Sacred Grove, where the veils between realms are thin, there grew a most peculiar tree. Its roots, not content with the earth’s embrace, grew upward, defying gravity’s tyranny. Its branches, rebelling against the sky’s allure, plunged deep into the soil.”
The Seeker’s brow furrowed. “But how can a tree grow like this? Surely it would tear itself apart!”
Mossymonk86’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, but that is the mystery, my child! For in its seeming contradiction, this tree found its greatest strength. Its roots, reaching heavenward, drew down the divine mysteries. Its branches, burrowing into the earth, anchored it in the richness of creation.”
He paused, plucking a leaf from his beard and examining it closely. “The tree grew not in spite of its division, but because of it. Each year, it bore fruit of indescribable sweetness, nourished by both celestial dew and earthly loam. Of course, damned inconvenient to harvest the thing, cause all the fruits grew deep underground in the rich soil of the Dreamweave. But once in a while, a branch would break forth over the surface, and while the birds of the air could not lodge there, at least the little woodland creatures would all gather round for the most succulent and nourishing feast!”
Suddenly, he popped the leaf in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, and licking his lips. “Oh! And it made such a wonderful habitat for the little wormies. To say nothing of the subterranean butterflies! You should have seen them, fluttering about in pitch darkness, bumping into roots and each other. Evolution works in mysterious ways, my friend. I once saw a mole wearing butterfly wings. Or perhaps it was a very furry butterfly with exceptionally poor eyesight. Either way, it was quite the fashion statement in the underground scene!”
The Seeker pondered this, scratching their head. “But what does all of this mean for me, O wise one?”
Mossymonk86 chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. “It means, dear Seeker, that your division is not a flaw, but a feature! Embrace the tension of your opposing desires. Let your longing be like roots that reach for heaven, and your attachment to the familiar like branches that ground you in your history and community.”
He leaned in close, his breath smelling of wild herbs, Styrofoam, and something vaguely and indefinably otherworldly. “Remember what is written: ‘Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.’ Your struggle is the very soil in which your self takes root! It is the strange everything taken into your being, that bears your sweetest fruit!”
He paused, plucking a piece of lint from his beard that looked suspiciously like a tiny, glowing nebula. “Ah, but here’s the cosmic joke, my perplexed pilgrim: sometimes the fruit is invisible, sometimes it tastes like questions, and occasionally, it sprouts legs and runs away! I once grew a thought so ripe it fell from my mind and became a new constellation. The stars still whisper its secrets on particularly clear nights.”
Mossymonk86 tapped his temple knowingly, causing a small shower of sparkles to fall from his ear. “Let your confusions ferment, let your doubts photosynthesize, and who knows? You might just bloom into a paradox so beautiful it makes even the moon scratch its head in wonder!”
The seeker’s eyes widened. “So… I should not seek to resolve this tension?”
“Resolve?” Mossymonk86’s sudden burst of laughter startled a nearby squirrel. “No more than the ocean should resolve its waves! Dance in the tension, my child. Let it be the rhythm that moves you ever deeper into the cosmic mystery.”
He stood, brushing dirt from his robe. He laid his hand, gnarled and weathered as the old oak, on the shoulder of the Seeker, catching their eyes with his gaze, and breathing into them with hidden fire. “Go forth and be like the Bidirectional Tree, my child. Grow in paradox, bear the fruit of holy contradiction. And remember,” he added with a wink, “even if others think you’ve gone barking mad, you’re simply branching out in new directions!”
With his other hand, he reached quickly and suddenly into his robe, pulled out a comically large pineapple, and thrust it into the Seeker’s chest with a dull thud. The Seeker winced as the sudden pineappley imposition briefly winded them, but then lifted their hands, cradling the strange fruit to their bosom like an infant. They turned to look at Mossymonk.
“Where did…” they began.
But Mossymonk86 was gone already, shimming back up the oak, even higher than before, beyond where he could audibly speak or be spoken to. (Although it did seem, briefly and from a distance, he turned his head a bit, and gave the Seeker a little wink.) The Seeker, now both gently illuminated and thoroughly confused, started hesitantly on their way with the hyperbolic pineapple tucked inconveniently under their arm. As any true disciple knows, acquire any two of the three of these, and it’s a sure sign of genuine enlightenment.