When one looks at a tree, one isn’t composed of chlorophyll and bark but the image of the tree is not separate from what one is. Of course, if one is compassionate, one may see the tree not merely as a thing but as a wonderful, precious living presence that one is not separate from. So, in sweet wisdom, the negation of separation goes even deeper.
Excerpt from a poem by Walt Whitman:
There was a child went forth every day.
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and
the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s
foal and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pondside,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and the
beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became part of him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him,
Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light-yellow, and the esculent roots of
And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms and the fruit afterward, and
wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road,
And the oldest drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern
whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that pass’d on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass’d and the quarrelsome boys…