“Hola Señor. ¿Eres tú Aymara?”
“Yes, I am the Wise Man.”
“Ah, tú hables ingles.”
“Yes, I do. What troubles you?”
“Well, I…I can…uh, what is the story behind the branch in your head?”
The Wise Man pauses, taking a deep breath. He smiles. The young man becomes more aware of the elder’s furrowed brow that seems to protrude over his eyes as if it were a shade. The shade enhances the view of the movie that emerges in his eyes.
The young man steps closer with a relaxed weariness and humility. He sees himself—at least he thinks it, hmm, yes—in the eyes of this sage being. The young man is transfixed by the movie unfolding before him. He is in a grassy meadow surrounded by daisies. In a redwood forest sitting at the base of a statuesque redwood whose thickness outpaces his own by 4 times over. He’s perched like a lotus on a stately, mossy rock before a waterfall. He’s propped up on the couch with headphones.
In each of these scenes, he is writing.
“You are meant to be a writer. The written word represents your deepest, most authentic and most vulnerable self. Words and the resulting visions and moods they inspire, are the blood that courses through our veins. Do you ever notice how the world gets quiet and you can feel and hear the beating of your heart in your mind?”
“Yes,” replied the young man. “What is that?”
“Those are the times that your words are nearing critical mass to explode from you and to wash over the world. They only seek the opportunity that opening brings.”
“Have I answered your questions?”
“Well, yes. But…”
“The tree is life. This branch is my connection to the source that drives all of us. It must run through my brain because that is where it all begins. Ends. And begins again.”
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