He was a monk. He lived in a carved out hollow of an old, giant baobab tree in the village, tending bees, eating baobab leaves and fruit, praying the hours, and healing people.
He dressed in his only frock, a yellow one because yellow was his favorite color. It was the color of the morning sun and corn on the cob just out of it's husk. It was the color of joy.
He wore his only pair of sandals, simple rubber ones made of recycled tires, to keep his feet from being burned and broken on the scorched and stony ground.
He wrote by the fire beside his tree at night. It was a good time and place to write. It helped him remember that writing can be a light against the darkness, a way to listen and understand.
He was alone but he wasn’t lonely. The loneliness birds had yet to come and lay their stone eggs in his heart. He was friends with the trees, friends with the bees, friends with the village folk, friends with himself, and friends with God.
When he was looking for a tree in which to make his home, he saw some beautiful ones. They seemed as if they had been tended in a garden. But he chose a very ugly tree, an old, misshapen, broken one that was dying away. He hollowed out the trunk of that tree and made his home in the heart of it.
A miracle happened there. In his first year of living in the tree, it sprouted more leaves than any other tree in the land, so many leaves that the tree looked as if it were a brush stroke of the greenest of greens from God’s holy palate. It produced unending baobab fruit for everyone near and far away.
He tended the bees that lived in his tree, and the bees tended him, too. The bees made honey in the branches of the tree. He would climb the tree and take the honey out of the holes with his bare hands and never receive a single sting. It’s as if the bees made the honey just for him. He could stand in front of his tree and raise his left hand and the bees would come down from their work, light on his face and frock, and hum and buzz a hymn to God.
He ate the leaves and fruit from his baobab tree and this, along with the honey, was the whole of his diet.
Each morning he scraped the fuzz off the shell of the fruit, cracked the shell with a stone, pulled out the white sweet and sour fruit, placed it in his iron pot of water over the fire, boiled it until the fruit separated from it’s marble sized seeds, removed the seeds with a small cotton net, and dipped out the drink with a clay mug.
Each afternoon, just before prayers, he picked leaves from the branches of the tree, leaves he crushed in his mortar with his pestle. After his prayers he would eat the baobab salad until he was full.
Each evening he added a cup of honey as a dressing to the salad and ended the day with a sweet taste on his tongue.
He prayed for people. This was his vocation, he thought, the why of the why he was there. For him, prayer was holding people in his heart much like the tree held him in it’s heart. He brought the people into himself and let them stay there for awhile, offering them a place to be heard, a place to be. Together they would find God in the stillness of the tree and the silence of the heart. He prayed this way for each of the seven canonical hours of the day, for people who would come to the tree and even for people who would never come to the tree.
He healed people. His heart went out to folks. One morning he heard a meek voice at the door of his tree.
- Please, help me.
They sat on the boulders in the courtyard around his tree and listened as she told him of her painful journey over rocky roads and high hills. He understood her when he saw her grotesquely shaped left foot, large and layered, like the foot of a full grown elephant. He watched a tear roll off her cheek and splash onto her elephant’s foot, baptizing it in sadness. He took some of the baobab fruit, crushed it in his mortar, splashed three drops of water on it, and anointed her foot in faith, hope and love. He wept with her.
As she lumbered away, she was healed.
He only had that one frock and that one pair of sandals because he learned from the one who had no place to lay his head. The less he had the less he needed. He washed his clothes before he laid down to sleep and donned them again when he rose to begin his new day.
During tierce, the 3 a.m. prayers, he wore nothing at all. He sat in nakedness and remembered that God always saw him just as he was.
He writes by a fire beside his tree tonight. As the smoke rises up and loses itself in the blackness and brilliance of the starry night above his village, he hopes.
He dressed in his only frock, a yellow one because yellow was his favorite color. It was the color of the morning sun and corn on the cob just out of it's husk. It was the color of joy.
He wore his only pair of sandals, simple rubber ones made of recycled tires, to keep his feet from being burned and broken on the scorched and stony ground.
He wrote by the fire beside his tree at night. It was a good time and place to write. It helped him remember that writing can be a light against the darkness, a way to listen and understand.
He was alone but he wasn’t lonely. The loneliness birds had yet to come and lay their stone eggs in his heart. He was friends with the trees, friends with the bees, friends with the village folk, friends with himself, and friends with God.
When he was looking for a tree in which to make his home, he saw some beautiful ones. They seemed as if they had been tended in a garden. But he chose a very ugly tree, an old, misshapen, broken one that was dying away. He hollowed out the trunk of that tree and made his home in the heart of it.
A miracle happened there. In his first year of living in the tree, it sprouted more leaves than any other tree in the land, so many leaves that the tree looked as if it were a brush stroke of the greenest of greens from God’s holy palate. It produced unending baobab fruit for everyone near and far away.
He tended the bees that lived in his tree, and the bees tended him, too. The bees made honey in the branches of the tree. He would climb the tree and take the honey out of the holes with his bare hands and never receive a single sting. It’s as if the bees made the honey just for him. He could stand in front of his tree and raise his left hand and the bees would come down from their work, light on his face and frock, and hum and buzz a hymn to God.
He ate the leaves and fruit from his baobab tree and this, along with the honey, was the whole of his diet.
Each morning he scraped the fuzz off the shell of the fruit, cracked the shell with a stone, pulled out the white sweet and sour fruit, placed it in his iron pot of water over the fire, boiled it until the fruit separated from it’s marble sized seeds, removed the seeds with a small cotton net, and dipped out the drink with a clay mug.
Each afternoon, just before prayers, he picked leaves from the branches of the tree, leaves he crushed in his mortar with his pestle. After his prayers he would eat the baobab salad until he was full.
Each evening he added a cup of honey as a dressing to the salad and ended the day with a sweet taste on his tongue.
He prayed for people. This was his vocation, he thought, the why of the why he was there. For him, prayer was holding people in his heart much like the tree held him in it’s heart. He brought the people into himself and let them stay there for awhile, offering them a place to be heard, a place to be. Together they would find God in the stillness of the tree and the silence of the heart. He prayed this way for each of the seven canonical hours of the day, for people who would come to the tree and even for people who would never come to the tree.
He healed people. His heart went out to folks. One morning he heard a meek voice at the door of his tree.
- Please, help me.
They sat on the boulders in the courtyard around his tree and listened as she told him of her painful journey over rocky roads and high hills. He understood her when he saw her grotesquely shaped left foot, large and layered, like the foot of a full grown elephant. He watched a tear roll off her cheek and splash onto her elephant’s foot, baptizing it in sadness. He took some of the baobab fruit, crushed it in his mortar, splashed three drops of water on it, and anointed her foot in faith, hope and love. He wept with her.
As she lumbered away, she was healed.
He only had that one frock and that one pair of sandals because he learned from the one who had no place to lay his head. The less he had the less he needed. He washed his clothes before he laid down to sleep and donned them again when he rose to begin his new day.
During tierce, the 3 a.m. prayers, he wore nothing at all. He sat in nakedness and remembered that God always saw him just as he was.
He writes by a fire beside his tree tonight. As the smoke rises up and loses itself in the blackness and brilliance of the starry night above his village, he hopes.
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