 The wind and rain had the sapling to the right crippled over like a soldier who had just taken hot shrapnel to the groan. It was crying and screaming. The land had already been drowned under three days of deluge. Surely this night would be the ultimate test. Treacherous thunder and shrieking lightning strikes had the slender trunk and frail branches, blowing and bowing every which way. She was a young and promising tree, one that sparrows relished and even seemed to prefer under the sun. If she could only sing, princes and poets would surely fall to their knees spilling kingdoms of gold and verse under her spellbinding elegance. Her naivety and exuberance for life was evident by how quickly she grew. Even on cloudy days, she appeared to glisten. That night, however, she would need to grow and unfold in a new way. Deep into the ground, where the guts of silence lives, her roots were beckoned into the dark unknowns. Farther and farther down they plunged, like a crazed and hungry serpent fighting to live. Tenacious tentacles grabbing at rock and root, anything and everything leading to the center of the planet. Like a calf feeding on her mother’s utter, she sucked in the heat from earth’s core, praying with fervor to rise mightier than the storm.
I, a sick voyeur from behind a double pane, hiding in the shadows of my safe bedroom, could watch everything. I felt her bones shake and imagined the squelch of her desperate plea. Pushed and pulled by schizophrenic gusts, my eyes zoomed in on those few strands of filament that loosely tied her to a bony wooden stake. I remember thinking how vulgar it was to fasten youth to its ancestral remains. The heart and mind bounced faster and more unpredictably like two clowns on a suspended trampoline. I talked, laughed and cried out loud. The nerves began to wither as she dangled on that soaked string and I in shame. Guilt’s heat had me repenting and questioning. Was my injury too serious to not go outside? If I slid and fell, could I not make like a swine and crawl forward in the rising pools of clay? Surely my walking stick could help. Like a soldier’s rifle, I could use it to pull myself to the front lines, covered in mud, unseen by the enemy. And if in the end, all my efforts failed, would it not be better to let my back break a thousand times then to sit here doing nothing? If not the tree, at least I might save myself. Time dripped as zaps and booms continued to crush the air. A brilliant mosaic of light shaped the sky, like the bulging veins under my electrified skin. Through the vague sheer of incessant rain, I turned to see the other saplings in the distance, her older brothers and sisters, who were managing better. They were not in danger for they were more securely fastened. The farmer only neglected one. The youngest one, at the end of the line. These observations and sensations reminded me of the many wartime stories my mother used to confide. The recollection of a seven year old girl, seeking shelter under a bed as the drone of phantom planes conveyed a looming death. How their iron pills of both fascism and liberty spilled fear, from above the charcoal clouds, onto the heart of her country and into her innocent mind. Her body and soul were curled over for many years thereafter, she explained. For as a bullied child must overcome the rape of his or her spirit, she too had to find a way to resurrect. It is not, however, enough for a victim to find life again. To regain the balance of one’s nature and experience the glorious beauty of god, one must rise, stand tall and stronger than before. For the sake of life itself, nature's harmony, as witnessed in each and every living being, must not come undone by others actions or inactions. As a refugee, my mother had many souvenirs of her struggle. The hardened shoe-like soles of her feet were constant reminders of the pain that she endured and the perseverance she proved. Until her last breath, she carried the memories of the people who helped. Those who lifted her up when she was down and those who helped her reach higher when she was already standing. As proud as she was, she forever remained grateful. Thankful for the countless 'dirt roads’ that she experienced and mastered. None of which would have been possible were it not for those who took interest and action in her well being. Lest we never forget that love is also a verb. E~
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