She stands alone, by far the largest tree around. I took over a dozen photos of this tree soon after I bought my little camera because of the impact this one tree had on me on first viewing her. I named her immediately, because what struck me when I first passed her on the second day of my morning walks here, was the view of her inner trunk. It's all blasted away, covered with what looks like dark moss and, could it be soot?
Possibly the inside of this ancient tree was used as some sort of incinerator at some point, but one thing is sure: she's had all her guts eaten, burned, or otherwise disposed of. And yet, even in this lush landscape, no other tree supports the density of foliage which covers every living part of her, from roots to upper most branches. She stands there, defying nature and drawing from incredibly hardy roots to produce an abundance of new leaves and support other vines and new shoots of life. Of course, she survived this weeks' typhoon, but one of her highest branches didn't. The remaining hole is pronounced, and I wonder if trees, like other mothers, feels sorrow over the dying branch beside her on the ground?
I watch women of the village, who's backs have formed over the years to fit their endless daily labors, pushing empty baby carriages around to support them as they walk and believe they miss being able to create and nurse the small inhabitants of those carriages. These stooped over little old women (I'm not going to insult their dignity by including photos that might not do them justice), like that tree, have sacrificed their health and everything they are and doggedly continue so to do. I see them out washing laundry in the canals, planting seeds, fishing in the rivers and canals with small nets, laying out vast amounts of peppers to dry--only to quickly gather them back in for the recurring rain. They work as diligently in the fields as the men, with scythes for the harvests, and wrapping individual fruits in their orchards against inclement weather...
It appears that everything inside these women, like that tree, has been chiseled away through the vicissitudes of existence. Every internal hope and cherished dream has, no doubt been compromised, and yet, like the great-grandmother tree, their efforts sustain far more life than those less stricken in years. They have evolved together, devoting every waking moment to the tending of life around them, giving no thought to themselves or their innermost needs. I believe they no longer have such needs.
Like a guardian, the great-grandmother tree stands just outside one of the older villages that backs up to the mountains. And tiny, bent and seemingly fragile women do the same for their villages.
I want to become like the great-grandmother tree and those women.
