Lately, I feel like a tree. I reproduce asexually, and I guarantee, my child could climb me safely. My shade shelters, my fruit feeds, my branches sweet, my leaves tickle and my roots warm.
Time flows in circle in the world of trees. Life is cyclical without beginning or ending. While I might seem standing still, I am moving, to the source of life, to the water, to the light. I am evolving, generation to generation.
But I am an uprooted tree. Like Athena who asked her father Zeus the gift of independence, I asked to become a tree with mobility. Not only my leaves fly and fall, I got two legs to crawl.
So I use my privilege. I went for a pilgrimage. Visiting my elders, I got shivers. The sight of them made me feel so small, so brief.
And, for a fleeting moment, life is a bliss.
The trees are lucky here at Hyde Park. They stay put but at a beautiful place. They grow among two lakes and a water spring. They’ve got plenty of dedicated visitors who enjoy and appreciate their presence, unlike other trees, scattered by themselves in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps it is better to be in a colony of like-minded being. Together they live a long harmonious life.
I saw a long-life lady with white curly hair, tiny body and oversized dark purple autumn coat. She was struggling to walk but she walked anyway. She had finished two laps and continued for some more. I smiled at here, adored her endurance.
Then I took a walk too, leaving husband and child soaking in warm sunshine so they could grow healthy and happily too. They laid over a mat on green grass, playing together like there’s no tomorrow. Above were intricate branches with leaves that brought a little bit of shadow, protecting them from rays too blaring.
I strolled and took notice of several long wooden chair among rows of trees. One of them was occupied by a man with a beard and trendy retro eyewear. He’s comfy wearing rainbow colored knitted scarf and black blazer, a rare combination. His mind was fixated on his book, and I couldn’t help but wonder, “is this some kind of utopia?” Reading facing a serene lake … what a luxury, how dreamy.
Then came along a woman wearing bright Indian sari. Maybe Western people would sometimes wished they’re “ethnic”, just so they could wear and seamlessly embody such colorful cute fabrics, having a legitimate reason to dress in a flowy, impractical yet ultra-feminine outfit.
A dog was lost in the park and a young lady tried to find its owner. Maybe the owner didn’t want him anymore. On the other hand, two small puppies with grey hair walked too excitingly. They made their owner, an old lady with her boobs done, blonde ponytail, tight white and navy knee-length one-piece and high heels, jiggled while casually having a conversation with her partner.
I squinted, seeing faraway, taking a deep breath of fresh air. In distant past, these lakes were a spiritual place for the aborigins, yet now I couldn’t see any of them here. Where did they go? My naivete was in a hideaway, so I said, “this land is a land of endless possibilities, but possibility for some comes at the expense of some other.”
Tirelessly my imagination wander. How did this place look like back then? Did it need to be kept the way it is now, with surrounding filter plants at the margin of the lake? Did it have designated place to sit, to lay, a playground for children, while the lake itself is off-limits the way it is now?
Why the intervention, was it wrong to let this place “be”, in all its natural glory?
Well, it might be more majestic but it might also be gone.