The Pines of Rome

Today, John and I went searching for my mamma’s favorite pine tree in Rome. 

I’m sure we looked like quite the pair, walking from tree to tree - touching each pine - and trying as hard as we could to look discrete amidst the bustling tourists surrounding the Roman ruins.

To an outsider, I suspect we resembled weary travelers in need of a shoulder to lean on as we propped ourselves against each friendly looking trunk within a stone’s throw of the Colosseum. 

The impulse behind our mission grew from a secret that my mamma had divulged to us - something no one else seemed to know - that these normally silent sentinels whisper their ancient tree wisdom when solicited. 

We were searching for such a tree. 

I leaned into one trunk that spoke to me with the kind of strength and understanding that only a tree can know. 

Strength that can only be achieved by one who never strikes out in its own defense, never raises its voice harshly to intervene, never runs away, and never hides from what it’s afraid of. Understanding that can only be achieved by one who doesn’t flinch, never blushes, and never turns away in fear or disgust or shame.

  

The tree - the most objective observer I have ever known - told me stories from its many years of quiet observance.

It spoke to me of growth and change, and of unchangingness. 

Of tranquil evenings, quiet nights, chaotic days, and scorching afternoons.

Of passion, love, loneliness, rivalry, and corruption.

Of good intentions, murder, peace, and the rising and falling of powers.

It spoke to me of Rome.

Watching, day in and day out - standing guard at the Colosseum – this tree is a presence of unconditional strength and understanding. With memories recorded in the rings of its trunk and branches, and holding all it has seen and experienced high towards heaven - as if in an offering to the Lord above - I wish I could be more like this tree.