The Island of Missing Trees(94)
‘Right, I think I said it’s possible to deduce a person’s character based on what they first notice in a tree.’
‘Carry on.’
‘This is not based on any scientific methodology or empirical research –’
‘I know that! Go ahead.’
‘What I meant was, some people stand in front of a tree and the first thing they notice is the trunk. These are the ones who prioritize order, safety, rules, continuity. Then there are those who pick out the branches before anything else. They yearn for change, a sense of freedom. And then there are those who are drawn to the roots, though concealed under the ground. They have a deep emotional attachment to their heritage, identity, traditions …’
‘So which one are you?’
‘Don’t ask me. I study trees for a living.’ He smoothed his hair. ‘But for a long time, I think I was in the first group. I longed for a sense of order, security.’
‘What about my mother?’
‘Second group, definitely. She’d see the branches first and always. She loved freedom.’
‘What about Aunt Meryem?’
‘Your aunt is probably in the third group. Traditions.’
‘How about me?’
Kostas smiled, holding her gaze with his. ‘You, my love, are of a different tribe altogether. You spot a tree and you want to connect the trunk and the branches and the roots. You want to hold them all in your vision. And that’s a great talent, your inquisitiveness. Don’t ever lose it.’
That night in her bedroom, listening to the singer her father was trying hard to like, Ada opened the curtains and stared into the darkness canopying the garden. Invisible as it was, she knew the fig tree was there, biding its time, growing, changing, remembering – trunk and branches and roots all together.
Fig Tree
The ancients believed there was a pole that ran through the universe, joining the underworld to earth and heaven, and at the centre of this pole towered, mighty and magnificent, the great cosmic tree. Its branches held up the sun, the moon, the stars and the constellations, and its roots reached all the way down into the abyss. But when it came to defining exactly what type of plant this might be, humans fell into bitter disagreement. Some said it could only be a balsam poplar. Others argued it must be a tamarind. Yet others insisted it was a cedar or a hickory or a baobab or a sandalwood. This is how humanity divided into hostile nations, warring tribes.
It was a very unwise thing to do in my opinion since all trees are essential and merit attention and commendation. You might even say there is a tree for every mood and every moment. When you have something precious to give to the universe, a song or a poem, you should first share it with a golden oak before anyone else. If you are feeling discouraged and defenceless, look for a Mediterranean cypress or a flowering horse chestnut. Both are strikingly resilient, and they will tell you about all the fires they have survived. And if you want to emerge stronger and kinder from your trials, find an aspen to learn from – a tree so tenacious it can fend off even the flames that aim to destroy it.
If you are hurting and have no one willing to listen to you, it might do you good to spend time beside a sugar maple. If, on the other hand, you are suffering from excessive self-esteem, do pay a visit to a cherry tree and observe its blossoms, which, though undoubtedly pretty, are no less ephemeral than vainglory. By the time you leave, you might feel a bit more humble, more grounded.
To reminisce about the past, seek out a holly to sit under; to dream about the future, choose a magnolia instead. And if it is friends and friendships on your mind, the most suitable companion would be a spruce or a ginkgo. When you arrive at a crossroads and don’t know which path to take, contemplating quietly by a sycamore might help.
If you are an artist in need of inspiration, a blue jacaranda or a sweetly scented mimosa could stir your imagination. If it is renewal you are after, seek a wych elm, and if you have too many regrets, a weeping willow will offer solace. When you are in trouble or at your lowest point, and have no one in whom to confide, a hawthorn would be the right choice. There is a reason why hawthorns are home to fairies and known to protect pots of treasure.
For wisdom, try a beech; for intelligence, a pine; for bravery, a rowan; for generosity, a hazel; for joy, a juniper; and for when you need to learn to let go of what you cannot control, a birch with its white-silver bark, peeling and shedding layers like old skins. Then again, if it’s love you’re after, or love you have lost, come to the fig, always the fig.
The Hidden
London, late 2010s
The evening her aunt left, Ada went to bed early with period cramps. Hugging a hot-water bottle to her stomach, she tried to read a little, but a jumble of thoughts raced through her mind, making it hard to concentrate. Outside the window, she could see the neighbour’s Christmas lights still blinking, looking less bright, less festive somehow now the holiday was over. There was a sense in the air of things coming to an end, an exhalation almost.
Cramps were not the only thing bothering her. Her aunt’s words about having a female role model around the house had rekindled in her soul a familiar concern: that some day soon her father might marry again. Since her mother’s death, this suspicion had become as much a part of her as her heartbeat. But this evening she did not want to be caught yet again in the cobwebs of anxiety that she was all too capable of weaving.