BROTHER OAK REVISITED
Copyright©2004 by Cocomo Rock All rights reserved.

“He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season, whose leaf also shall not wither; and whatever he does shall  prosper”--Psalm One: Verse Three—

Time in prison provides tons of opportunities for cultivating one’s skills of observation.  Of course, it's just as true that time in prison provides tons of opportunities for many other pursuits, too. Nevertheless, I am particularly keen on observation because I think it just might be the one thing—that one elusive key to the transformative alchemy that men and women in prison long for.  In fact, in the scheme of things, I would go for an opportunity to gain astute observational skills above an opportunity to master the art of turning lead into gold!  Gold, any fool can steal.
                I have a nearly worshipful respect for people who are sharp observers in life—not onlookers or spectators, but observers.  I stand in awe of and gratitude to all those who rise to the daily challenge of drawing out the best and most precious of what they observe then bring it home to live with them in the cultivation of harmony and purpose in their interactions with the world.  Of course, I have no authority to speak for how good or true this holds for others, but the use of keen observation to examine my environment, and myself, never fails to reward me well.  Whereas, neglecting it never fails to cost me dearly.
                Wherever possible, I like most to observe the simple elements of the outdoors— creature, cavern, crest, or vale.  Whenever I do, I am always hopeful that I might somehow grasp another of the million lessons nature has to teach.  Sometimes the subject of my observation is as great as the endless night sky; while at other times, it is as simple as a stray stone.  Yet, there is always some extraordinary truth there, waiting to be touched.
                For instance, the ground just beneath my window is a scraggly patch of weeds, beaten grass, and faded lichens.  Each faces a constant struggle to survive in the inhospitable, sand and rock‑filled depression created there by torrents of rain that pour from the prison’s roof whenever a dark cloud breaks overhead.  This tiny theater is my frequent retreat.  Whenever I need to get away from the contentions of my prison-dormitory, this is the world that draws me.  I like it best when the grass and weeds are swaying underneath deep puddles of rainwater.  Submerged in the underwater realm, the faded lichens seem somehow to remember how to be green again.  It doesn’t last long, though.  The gravely soil drains quickly. The sun beams away every remaining hint of moisture, and all returns to its former state of desperately dry.  Still, while the rain lasts...