But then Gibran. continued and said … “We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness.”
At least the “emptiness” we record now digitally doesn’t fell down trees. But the avocado tree in my garden that I gaze at from my bedroom window and watch the birds singing and chirping was cut and burned to the ground and was a little stump about a decade ago. Why? Because it bore no fruit. It was barren. But the tree refused to die and little shoots started sprouting, and I let it be. The tree grew branching out, too heavy and into the next door garden. I got a man to trim the branches, and then regrettably discovered the flowers and what was a tiny budding fruit.
Sad I photographed the leaves fresh green with rain on it, the beauty of its fallen leaves and talked to it. But still there were no fruits.
Then one day recently, almost camouflaged by the noise of green, there was this one fruit.
Whether I get to taste it or whether the monkey brood gets it doesn’t matter — the tree has come through its trauma and the birds on it tweets a whole new song.