OLIVES ARE MY FRUIT
I myself sprang from an olive many years ago. The farmers who lived here planted me in this corner of their fields. Behind me is a beautiful old stone wall, the tastes of which flow down into the earth around me. I was planted with intent and considerable expectations. One day, I should not just bring shade to the livestock but also fill the farmers’ woven baskets with a bounty of rich, juicy olives. Somehow, I know that my fate and the fates of the people around me are intertwined. Without them, the farmers, I would not be here, and without me, the olive tree, they would not bring in their precious harvest. As soon as I had grown into a tree of beauty and stature, the farmers began to collect my fruit. My fleshy olives were placed in a mixture of water, salt, and spices in order to ripen and to remove the bitterness from their taste. Children often shy away from my fruit, but adults love my olives and often compete in spitting out my kernels in arching ascents. Now and then, where the fruit of these competitions has landed, a new olive tree sprouts out.
I feel how people love me. They spread out a large woven cloth and lie down at my feet. Then they unwrap the food, and, of course, the olives!
In rainfalls of joking and bolts of laughter, they drink the wine and consume the olives along with other delicacies. Oh, what fragrances unfold and what sounds pearl about. Their voices rise and fall, like the bottles around them. From time to time, there remain just two in intimate embrace. I am then witness to the conception of a child. My senses are everywhere. My skin quivers in unison with their vibrant emotions. As a silent partaker, I experience people’s stories, even their shared sorrows in whispered discourse. I like to hold people in my arms, support them when they choose to sit on my knees, and bed them at my feet at night. We grow together like one big family.
My parents, the farmers from the past, are no longer with me now. I have seen many generations come and go. Yet, somehow, this human spirit has become a part of me. Now, never alone, my gnarled limbs converse companionably with each other, just like the dear people who have cared for us for centuries.
Home:
Spain, Mallorca, Serra de Tramuntana
Tree species:
Olea europaea
Tree family:
Oleaceae, olive
Common Names:
Olive tree
Motivation:
High up in the Tramuntana Mountains of the island of Mallorca, the roads run past old olive groves sculpted into the mountainsides. My eye caught a glimpse of this ancient tree. I could feel that there were many stories hidden below the bark of its split and knotty trunk.