Biloba

This sprout of a gingko came to this place in a plastic bag. It looked like a dead twig with a curly root. We put it in the ground and gave it water. This season, these leaves sprouted and began building up energy for next year's growth. The gingko is considered sacred by Chinese in its native south east China. The tree is considered a living fossil in my native north east America. It is part of a family, for which it is the last known survivor, that eventually gave rise to conifers. It survives because it is hardy and can withstand all the burdens of modern urban living. Smoke doesn't bother it, nor does pollution. We planted this one in a pile of fill and it has sprouted all of these leaves. We like resilient things. There is an Argentinean saying, Yerba mala nunca muere. It translates, 'the bad weed never dies.' There is something overwhelmingly noble about resiliency, something hopeful. The gingko is a hopeful tree, and a reminder of the deep time in which life has had to adapt. We witness but a glimmer, a half-glance, at something unfathomable; we can ponder, we even try to see, and hope we are not blinded. And the gingko silently, nobly, sprouts a new edition. There is no family without the individual, and no individual without the family.

There is an anger on the land. A misplaced, unplaced, disrooted anger. Too many brothers and sons and sisters and daughters, too many who were really just after a college education, getting an education in 21st century bully diplomacy. Something. Maybe its the smug smile. It could be that we've forgotten other tones of voice and dispositions. Maybe private wealth really does create an inherent instability, an elegant negation. Maybe it's the chronic dehydration, and sugar overstimulation - carbohydrates are just beer before the alcohol. Whatever it is, it simmers. It's not old like the Gingko biloba, it is very new, not even blanched yet.