The magnolia tree across the street is in full bloom. Over thirty years ago this tree was so small new owners thought she was a bush. This spring she stands taller than the neighboring rooftops. For some reason — temperature? sun? soil? — her scent is epic this bloom cycle. The sweet air wafts through our backyards, almost sugary. Pedestrians walking by stop still to look for the source. I just have to open a window to be overwhelmed.
While spring proceeds to throw down beauty the news of the world gets more ugly. Countries are tearing themselves to shreds. I have friends going through hard stuff; beloveds lost, physical challenges, life decisions. How to be effective, helpful, supportive? Texting seems impersonal. Phone calls are exhausting. Letter writing is a rusty skill. Darkness is falling on so many people. If I could bottle the perfume of this magnolia I would not hesitate to mail it to you, coddled in tissue. Much better than deciphering my handwriting in a letter.
I have been thinking about faith today: faith in the trees waking up come April; faith that my riotous hyacinth will emerge all the wrong colors but still so right; faith that a day of sunlight can keep the worst at bay. Last summer we held our breath when the house across the street sold, the time of year when the magnolia is just a big leafy tree, a little too big for her corner of the property. In fairness to the newest owners, the magnolia shadows their yard and brushes against the house behind her. When the tree surgeons arrived a few weeks later and the machinery started there was every possibility that I might have leapt the hedge, put my arms around her trunk and held my body between her and the workmen. I watched through the shade (that kind of neighbor!) and held my breath, shoes on standby. Thankfully she just received a good prune, a limb taken here and there, some cables attached to hold the biggest branches stable. Their reward for having faith in her was the glorious bloom I am gazing at from my desk this morning.
We should name her, this magnificent sentry, this quiet force of mother nature that swings moods and intoxicates evenings. She stands so tall and reminds me that witnessing the earth’s journey is a privilege. And I am responsible whether a human, friend or stranger to take care of what has been and will be placed before me — the good, bad, well, unwell, new or old. Join me.
I send you my far-reaching love and support and appreciation. And her.
Alexandra Dane 