Traveling Souls

It has been over three hundred years since I was a human—once a beetle, then a bird, a cat, and now a pear tree—I grow on a farm and observe humanity. I reflect on the magical story that never ends about the journey of souls on Planet Earth. Souls are born into bodies, they live, they die, and life begins again. A soul is a grasshopper, a duck, then a fly; a soul occupies a different body in each life. They experience the world as a tiger and then become a wife. Their child in their wife-life becomes their sibling in the next, then the pear tree in their orchard, then their best friend. The beauty and magic of the never-ending souls: the humans do not even know! They are not aware they will live again!

They live their lives believing each is their first and their last, they organize society to cope with their fear of death. They grow up petrified of what comes next; they try to avoid the thought of nothingness. They place guidelines on science, they do not know how to quantify magic—how could they possibly be born again? They judge their actions and hope they will get into heaven where there will be no consequences—they can eat and stay thin; they can retire and watch over their grandkids. They spend their lives searching for a reason to live—because it is our only one and we must do something big! So, they work until they are burnt out, they push corporate jobs onto their kids, they hope their good deeds will grant them a spot in heaven. They live their lives believing they are living the only life they are permitted to live, and then they reincarnate into new bodies, meet the same souls in different ways, and they think it is their first and only life again.

Something so magical about it all—so twisted and fantastical about these humans living in blindness: they do not know, but the trees do. Many trees live longer than human beings, including me! Humans plant trees and grow with them, they die, and grow again. Us trees build relationships with humans who do not remember why we feel so familiar. We absorb the energetic collisions souls make with each other; we feel the joy, the playing, the laughter, the power dynamics, the teaching and learning, hurting, changing, and growing, the letting go and dying, the rebirth and reuniting. We feel them meeting each other, connecting, saying goodbye, growing up and adjusting, crossing paths again and remembering in ways they do not try to understand.

I was planted by an old farmer who stewarded the land; he seeded fifteen acres of fruit trees by hand. He lived a long and laborious life, and wished he could be reborn to plant all over again. He existed in solitude and longed for human friends. The farmer’s apprentice, a young man filled with regret, felt as though his life never truly began. He spent his childhood waiting—waiting to play, to learn, to engage in things that might bring him joy. He always felt it was too late—too late to pick up the guitar and to start his own farm. He was filled with impatience, sorrow and shame, so much so that it drove him insane. One night, he decided to step into the lake and that is where his body stays. I am fond of this soul, for they have cried while hugging me. He was too timid to climb my branches but he sat on the grass and pressed his face to my leaves.

I felt his energy again when their soul was eighteen, in a new body, non-binary; they felt too big to be a woman or a man; Stone is what their friends call them. And Arlo, the old farmer, was in a new body as well—a twenty-one year old who identified as non-binary too. Stone found me during a bike ride. They stopped to take a break and pick my fruit. Out of all the trees in the orchard, their chest pulled them toward me. They approached me with a fondness, a feeling they could not explain, “I know you. I know you! I think...” They grabbed onto my branch and up they climbed! They ascended with ease and squealed with delight. Stone pulled a pear from my limb and took a crisp bite.

Arlo did the same, quite often, but at different times. They grew up in the orchard and knew their grandfather planted the trees, who died a month before Arlo was born. They were unaware that their soul had planted me. Everyday they crawled up my trunk and dangled upside-down, they sang to the bugs, and had no idea their slug friend used to be their dog.

Arlo and Stone’s energy filled me with warmth, and I dreamed of the day their souls would come face to face; I waited as patiently as I could. Arlo and Stone had a lot to learn before they were ready to meet. When they had the capacity to teach each other how to be, when they reached the perfect equilibrium between Arlo’s soul and Stone’s, they both came to me. Arlo slumped in my highest branch, taking a nap, when they awoke from the shaking of my leaves. Stone was trying to knock down a pear with a rock, and was failing miserably. They giggled and twirled and asked for help. Arlo tossed a pear down eagerly. There was a tenderness in their smiles, a familiarity they could not comprehend. This day was everything I hoped it would be.

Stone and Arlo were immediate friends. They laughed and sang and climbed every day. They held hands, shared stories of their childhoods, and valued their differences. Stone learned about patience, non-judgement, and self worth; Arlo learned to give their body a break—not to push so hard. They connected with a slowness and a fierceness. They played in many ways—doing summersaults, passing rocks between their mouths, and tracing each other’s faces. They live this life with a vigor, they glow with youthfulness and hope. They are excited for the day they will start a farm of their own.