Simana’s Diaries

Simana’s Diaries – 16 – The Tree of Life

Simana said: “The world is not a single piece. The ground you walk on is merely the middle layer.

Above it lies the sky. Below it lies darkness. And both unfold in layers upon layers. The middle corresponds to where people live.
That is why people could often neither fully remember what lay above nor forget what lay below.

Nor is the

sky, as you imagine, a single dome. It is a universe suspended in layers. Each layer is a consciousness. Each layer is a test. Each layer belongs to a being.”

Simana had realized this for the first time when the drum fell silent. As the sound faded, the void began to speak.

Başkam used to say, “The world is three. But this is not something that can be explained by numbers.”

Above was the sky. In the middle was the earth. Below was the underworld.

But what really mattered was how these three realms remained standing. For neither the heavens could stand on their own, nor could the underworld avoid collapsing. Nor could humans live without being tossed between the two. There was something holding them all together: the Tree of Life…

This tree grew neither in a forest nor on a mountaintop. Its trunk was not visible above ground.

Its

roots descended into the layers of the underworld, and its branches pierced through the layers of the heavens. Its trunk, however, began right where humans stood.

Simana did not see the tree that night. No one had ever seen it, anyway. But many had stepped into its shadow.

At the

very top sits Kayra Han. He does not speak of fate; fate falls from him.

Below him is Ülgen, atop a golden mountain. His breath is life; his gaze is order.

Further down, Kızagan and Mergen Tengri hold the light that connects heaven and earth.
Mother Sun shines here. Father Moon waits here.

And even further below, the ancestors of humankind dwell. They are not dead. They are merely invisible.

Başkam used to say: A shaman cannot pass through every level as he ascends to the sky. Because each level demands “merit”—not through knowledge, but through conduct. At each level, a piece of the shaman’s essence would remain behind.

The

fifth level is the North Star. There, the sky is locked. Beyond that point, one can only pass through with the spirit. A person cannot reach the fifth level without leaving behind everything they know, everything they believe in—even themselves.

To go

higher, you’d have to leave even more behind—including your intention. There were gatekeepers: two-headed eagles. One looked up, the other down. If both saw you, there was no hiding.

On this journey, the shamans would head toward the linden tree and carve notches into its trunk. Each notch represented a level; each level, a letting go. Climbing that tree was less about ascending to the heavens and more about shedding layers of oneself, descending toward one’s essence.

The shaman ascending

to the heavens would first die. Then, guided by one of his ancestors, he would begin to walk again.

At

each level, he would receive a piece of knowledge. But that knowledge could not be conveyed in words. The knowledge altered the weight of the body.

By the time one reached the

ninth level, one had already stopped saying “I.” There, the spirits’ blessings were received, and one returned. For remaining in the heavens was not a human endeavor.

The

underworld was the same. It, too, had levels. Some said seven; others said nine.

Erlik awaited

there. It was thought to be dark. But Erlik was not dark. He knew the way back.

The shaman who descended

into the underworld did not go there simply to go there. He descended to find out whether he could return.

Simana understood all this that night. The Tree of Life existed not only to ascend but also to descend. A person was not whole without ascending or descending.

That is why some people always remained incomplete. Because they either forgot to look up at the sky or were afraid of their roots.

The Tree of

Life called no one. But everyone revolved around it.

Whoever passed through the

seven heavens would, at that very moment, shed seven burdens. Whoever reached the ninth heaven no longer carried themselves.

Simana would explain it this way:

“We do not ascend to the heavens. We see how far the tree carries us.

When

a kam climbs the Tree of Life, the spirits do not teach him.
The spirits remind him of what he has forgotten.

And each level gives them something back: their fear. Their pride. The name they had forgotten.

There is no God at the

very top. At the very top, there is what remains of you…”

That night, the wind died down. The stars did not shift, but one seemed to shine brighter.

Simana raised her head. She hadn’t gone up yet. She hadn’t come down yet.

But the first branch of the Tree of Life had bent. And that meant the call had begun.