Before my house was built, before the land was cleared, my friend Ted and I walked through the trees. I whispered my thanks to them. I was so thankful for that little piece of land and everything that grew upon it. I thanked the trees for their strength and towering beauty and for the sacrifice they would make so my family and I would have a place of laughter and Love and shelter.
In the midst of the giant pines and oaks was a majestic magnolia. It was tall and full; it was lush. Ted encouraged me to ask the builder to save that tree and I did. I marked it and asked him to make sure he kept it. It was far enough away from the house site that it didn't need to be removed. But, as you have already guessed, when the land was cleared the magnolia was cleared along with it.
We moved into the house in February, when everything was grey and bare; the land slept deeply that winter and it would not be until the spring that I would notice the little twig of magnolia. It was no more than 2.5 feet tall, with its full and dark green leaves. It was growing right next to a mighty oak and I thought the roots of the oak would likely strangle the little offshoot of magnolia.
Each spring, acknowledging that it had made it through the winter, I willed it to bloom. All the magnolias in other yards, on other grounds would be filled with blossoms in late spring. The scent would fill the surrounding air and evoke images of lovers and lazy southern nights. Those tall and fragrant trees always made me remember the tree I had lost to the builder's short term memory or, if I was feeling unkind, to his broken promise. I wanted that baby magnolia to assert itself, to be gaudy in its display of flowers, to be whole.
Over the last 11 years, the tiny tree has been my touch stone. It sits just outside my bedroom window at the start of the treeline. On evenings when I felt the weight of the world crushing in on me with fears of losing my business (when I was consulting) or of losing my mind (when I began a 9 - 5 in the public sector), I would look out at that little magnolia and smile. Because, dwarfed as it was by the trees around it, small as it was standing against the winds and storms and droughts, barren as it was, still, it was always there. Its survival gave me hope of my own ability to carry on.
Jorge left a comment a few weeks ago and he labeled me resilient. It was an interesting adjective, one that I had not associated with my self before. And, I liked it. I have survived and I am not jaded or inert. I am still trying, still learning, still putting one foot in front of the other. I have not the brilliant blooms of some or the authority of others, but, I am still here.
Like my magnolia.
Last week, I awoke as the sun was beginning to rise. The trees are so tall they block the sun for several hours but, the light makes its presence known. And in that early morning light of intermingled greys and blues, my little magnolia shrugged in the breeze and offered me a glimpse of her first bloom.
It brought tears to my eyes.
2 comments:
Wow - Good for you! You are resilient - and it is not unkind to acknowledge that the builder broke his promise - your land, your tree, your money. But you have made lemonade from the lemon he gave you (with the tree's help) and turned the whole thing into an inspiration for yourself and an inspiring blog for everyone else.
Did you know that the Parthenon was built (I am hazy on details) because a sacred olive tree was cut down there by enemies and Athens thought their time had come, but the roots sprouted and just see what they turned it into! You and the Greeks - who knew?
Don't left the builder know how your resilient tree has made you feel good, or he might charge you extra!
This was so lovely! I stand and cheer for you and for your lovely little magnolia. You will both prevail and produce more flowers every year. In fact, you already have.
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