Searching for my tree

An Allegory

I was thrilled to attend a monthly Swedish Writer’s Seminary close to my home from September 1992 to May 1993 during the winter term. On the second weekend of the Seminary, our leader suggested we write a story about a tree that we feel has impacted our life story. I immediately thought I wanted to write about the Birch, a symbol of finding my way home. I had read a famous author, Zacharias Topelius's book, The Birch and the Star when I was nine. I was sure the birch was my tree.

Yet, when I began writing, the story was quite different.

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Searching for my tree

I searched for the grove where someone said I would find my tree, but the road was no longer there. Great excavators had mutilated the landscape. I sat down on a big rock and cried. How could I find my tree? Was it there, or was it destroyed?

A little child came and stood by my stone. She looked at me with her big, questioning eyes.

“Why are you crying?” She held out her hand.

”Come with me. I will show you something.”

She led me past the big rocks that the excavator had left, past the railroad, the river, the mountains, and the sea. We traveled past all kinds of trees. Palms swayed in the wind. The sea was blue. The waves foamed over the sand. The crabs fled from the foam in an eternal game. Was the palm my tree?

No. It was too lonely. I didn’t want to be alone.

The girl led me on. We came to a road that led to a schoolyard. Around the sports field were huge trees. During the hot summer, fiery yellow-red flowers burst out of the twigs. They were beautiful, but the fire that shone from them scorched my heart. The flame tree was not my tree.

There were trees with the tastiest fruits: the mango tree with its dark leaves and juicy fruit, the guava tree with spiky branches and seed-filled fruit. Not one of them was my tree.

The little girl led me into the middle of a park. When I finally found my tree, I sat down under it. I did not yet understand that this might be my tree. It did not look like any other tree I had passed earlier. All the other trees had a trunk and a crown of branches reaching for the sky. Their roots were not visible. This tree had roots growing down from the branches, as though it needed extra support from every side.

The wind whispered through the leaves. I heard it say to the tree,

“Tell your story so that even the little girl will understand.”

The tree began its story.

“Long ago, long ago, I sprouted up out of the ground in a country far away. The air was clear, and the sun shone brightly. The birds flew around me, chirping and singing their songs. Life was good.

“One day, the Gardener came from the King’s Palace and began digging the ground around my root. I was terrified. I’ll die! I’ll die if you move me from here.” I cried.

The Gardener did not hear my cry. He did not explain anything. Maybe he thought I would not understand.

It hurt so. My heart had pushed my roots deep into the ground. The root broke when the gardener pulled me up. I was sure I would die. There was no way I could survive. My heart was bleeding.

The Gardener rolled a bunch of damp hay around my roots and put me into a sack. Everything was dark. I did not know where I was taken. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to die.

Many days later, I saw the light. I was in a strange country. I was still alive. I heard someone digging with a spade. I heard a voice saying:

“I plant this tree as a symbol of friendship and justice. May it grow tall and give shelter to many children.”

The man who spoke held me very gently. I saw a tear flow down his cheek. I did not understand anything. He put me down into the hole in the ground and filled the hole with soil around my roots.

I was sure I would never grow big. My roots were still hurting. I stood where I was, almost lifeless. I did not want to look around me. I did not want to know where I was. I didn’t care about the touch of the wind, nor the freshness of rain, nor the warmth of the sun.

I thought stubbornly: I don’t belong here. I don’t want to be here.
 
One day, a lone woman came along. She stopped beside me and looked at my drooping leaves. I felt the warmth of her empathy flow towards me. I wanted to tell her my story.

She sat down on the ground and listened to my complaint. I knew she understood. She felt my sorrow and my longing. It was enough.

After that day, I began to see again. I was in a Kings Park. I grew tall, taller than the other trees. I stretched my branches so birds could build their nests in them. I noticed that I had roots growing down from my branches. I thought then that I would make a swing of them for children. I want to show all the children who find me that I am here for them.

The tree did not have to say more. I understood. It was my tree. I carefully removed the girl from my arms. I stood up and looked at the tree again. Its rough stem was covered with air roots that penetrated the ground. Dead brown leaves covered the ground. The tree had died many deaths, yet it lived. It still protected the birds and the children.

The little girl began to gather the leaves in big piles. Suddenly, she was surrounded by a crowd of children. They were playing and hiding under the dead leaves. I heard them laugh and shout in joy. They rolled around on the ground, so the leaves rustled. The big boys climbed up in the tree. The younger children clung to the swing. Everyone had a place in my tree.  

After the play, the children were tired. They returned home to their parents.

I realized that I must leave my tree. I have to move on. I have to plant trees for other children in other countries.

The wind followed me with its whispering melody.

October 1992

A few years later, one of my siblings visited our childhood country and took a picture of my nephew under the tree I wrote about. My nephew gave me permission to publish this photo.