Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise

The words of D. H. Lawrence speak as thunder speaks across the mountains — deep, shaking the roots of the soul. “Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death... until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.” In this utterance lies the eternal paradox of life — that to create is also to destroy, that every birth is shadowed by death, and every dawn stands upon the ashes of the night. The universe itself obeys this law: stars are born in the ruin of other stars, forests grow from decay, and men rise upon the bones of their fathers. It is the rhythm of the cosmos, the pulse of existence itself.

Lawrence warns us of mankind’s rebellion against this sacred balance. He saw a world where man, in his fear of death, seeks to preserve everything, to multiply endlessly, to build cities upon cities, to save every frail form from perishing. But this is no triumph — it is a desecration of nature’s rhythm. For if nothing dies, nothing can truly live. The soul stagnates where decay is denied; the stream becomes a swamp when its waters do not flow. Thus, what begins as compassion — the will to preserve — becomes a monstrous accumulation of existence, a horror of stillness where vitality turns to dust.

Look to the earth, and you shall see this truth written plainly. The forest renews itself only through fire; when the old trees fall and the ground is scorched, the seeds awaken. Without destruction, there is no renewal. And so too in the heart of man: those who cling to comfort, who will not release what has grown old within them — their dreams, their loves, their beliefs — they wither before they die. The wise man burns his dead leaves gladly, knowing that through their ashes the new shoots will rise.

Consider the tale of Rome, the Eternal City. Once, she rose in majesty, her legions spanning the known world. Yet her greatness turned to rot when she sought only to preserve her glory. Her senators grew fat, her temples hollow, her spirit fossilized beneath marble. The gods withdrew their favor. Only through the fall of Rome did a new world emerge — nations reborn, arts rekindled, and faith reshaped. Thus, Rome had to perish so that humanity might grow. Her destruction was not loss but transformation, the eternal law in motion.

The poet’s cry, then, is not of despair but of reverence for the sacred law of death. He reminds us that mortality is the guardian of meaning. When we try to abolish death — whether through machines that never sleep, minds that never rest, or cities that never pause — we defy the very current that sustains us. Life without ending becomes a prison; existence without loss becomes a void. To embrace creation truly, we must also embrace the fire that consumes it.

O sons and daughters of tomorrow, learn from this: do not hoard what must pass away. When a chapter ends, close it with gratitude. When a love fades, let it go with honor. When a dream dies, mourn it — but then sow new seeds upon its grave. Do not build monuments to the past, nor strive to keep every leaf from falling. For in the falling of the leaf lies the promise of spring.

The practical wisdom is thus: practice renewal through release. Each day, cast off one habit, one fear, one attachment that no longer serves you. Let your spirit breathe through the spaces that destruction clears. Do not fear endings — they are the hands of creation working in secret. Let death, in all its forms, be your teacher, and you shall find that even loss contains the seed of joy.

So remember, as the ancients did: life and death are not enemies but lovers. The dance of one gives meaning to the other. Honor both, and you will walk the eternal path of creation — where destruction is not horror, but holiness, and every ending sings the birth of a new beginning.