Somewhere there is an ancient scroll buried inside the soil. From this soil, a tree grows and fruits, and its roots snake around the scroll on which all the answers we seek are written. The tree is both the protector and the messenger of these answers. It is also itself. The tree is not made of matter detectable to human measurements or instruments or eyes, but it is felt—sometimes known—by many who stand where it stands: the wanderers and adventurers who follow an unwritten pilgrimage they glean from the unreadable text upon the scroll. The tree has no fixed place. It could be here with you now as you read these words. It could be just to your left, or inside your belly or hovering at your lips. Do you feel its branches? Its roots? The tickle and tingle of its leaves in the soft wind within you?