old school and a death of a tree

i remember a few months back, at work, there was this sudden lapse of calls coming in. for us call center agents it was a luxury that we, of course, most welcome. it means some precious free time to do some other things. we came to serve but the chance of service is only there if someone will call to seek assistance. during this lull, most of my teammates took the chance to catch up on each one's activities through our team chat. i don't have much special activity to share with my life so i just read the personal news they shared on the chat. a couple of minutes later, with a desire to break the monotony of just reading friends' personal escapades, i started to mechanically type the following on the team chat:

i think that i shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree, a tree whose hungry mouth is prest, against the earth's sweet, flowing breast; a tree that looks at God all day, who lifts her leafy arms to pray, a tree that may in summer wear, a nest of robins in her hair; upon whose bosom snow has lain, who intimately lives with rain, poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.

there was immediate reaction after i posted this. most of my teammates recognized the poem but they could not place it. and most were actually amazed why i still remembered this. of course i should! why shouldn't i? i was equally amazed that they have not committed this joyce kilmer poem to memory. why shouldn't they? for me, this is one of the greatest poems ever written for God and His Creation. one of them even teasingly told me. "that was old school!".

OLD SCHOOL? i know, most times, when young people tell this to older people, they speak with haughtiness. they are condescending. it's as if things of the past are much inferior to what's going on with them at the present -- be it music, art, science, religion. but what about their NEW SCHOOL? personally, with their new science and their religion, i only find something like a building upon the foundations of the old school, a rewording or a re-cloaking to fit the needs of the times, to make them contemporary. it is in terms of their music and their art that one can readily observe a vast difference. now, one easily will find much angst, anger, violence, sex, and much negativity. in my humble opinion, these will not serve this new generation, this new school, any, towards the expression, the march, of Selfhood and Divinity. these tie down this new generation to the glorification of the body and its materialistic leanings.

they must be reminded: we are not our physical bodies. these vehicles die and rot and turn to dust. there is this other aspect of the individual that transcend physical death, and go on being. this is our aspect that needs to be glorified. this is our True Self and This is Divine. realizing this brings one to the path of perfect happiness and profound peace. the Old Sages has been reminding this since time immemorial.

our True Divine Self is as old as Eternity. indeed, our True Divine Self is old school!

now, let me share two pictures:

 i took the picture of the tree on the very left of the image just two weeks ago as it had turned its leaves orange-red in preparation to shedding them just as it wont to do at this time of the season. it is celebrating its "treeness". its life. the other trees beside it seem to

be green with envy? ha, ha, pardon the pun. this tree's leaves are the ones that old pedro, the street sweeper, patiently sweeps every day in front of our house before he got "fired". this tree, she is always majestic and proud in her own way.

 

and then, just one  recent morning, imagine my surprise, and then my sadness, upon arriving from work to discover this scene at the right picture. some young people thought that this proud tree's limbs will be good to fuel their fires. they were impatient. they could not wait for her branches to dry and fall to the ground as they periodically do. they haughtily, mercilessly, cut them off, definitely when no one was in the vicinity.  it is a sad, treacherous act.

i really don't know if she'll die. her roots are still firmly entrenched beneath the earth. i am still fiercely hoping that she will be able to revitalize herself and live again. i've seen trees do this. i've been counting the days now. every time i return from work, i inspect her, hoping to see a hint of a fragile, new branch shooting out from her outstretched "arms".

i can only hope. 

in my mind i keep repeating ....

POEMS ARE MADE BY FOOLS LIKE ME

BUT ONLY GOD CAN MAKE A TREE.  -- Joyce Kilmer