Lament

The landowner sur­veyed the cor­ner of the ter­rain to which he had long staked a claim. It was large. It rose steadily, enough to ache his legs and make him wise to its value. It was rich. There was a patch of vines, lines of time­less, over­grown olive trees. But much was lost to di­ver­sity. It all needed bring­ing to heel.

He craved order. As with every­thing, he wanted all under his con­trol, for it to be right, neat, de­fined, con­tained. Every­thing could bend to his will, but if it would not, it would be felled.

But he could nei­ther see the wood for the trees, nor the ter­races for the growth.

He could not see the whole.

He did not see life, he saw chaos. He did not see im­pos­si­bil­ity, he saw op­por­tu­nity. His eyes nar­rowed and he itched to begin. He had the power, after all. He had the will. He didn’t hes­i­tate. Or doubt. He ruled. All would come to order.

He knew what he wanted to reap, but here was a weave of the un-name­able, the un­wanted, the worth­less. What he could not un­der­stand, what was not of value to him, would sub­mit.

Out came the sickle, the saw and the scythe.

He began, down in the bar­ranc where seven wild plum trees ranked against him. He plunged in, deaf to the dam­age, a trail of trunk, branch, fruit, flower and leaf in his wake. He cried in pain and anger when wood pierced his boot. For these were wild plums that bear thorns, spikes two cen­time­tres long.

It drove him. He cut deeper, faster. Liv­ing things that could move did move, fly­ing, run­ning, hop­ping out of his path. Those that were rooted waited for him. There was dig­nity, but he could not see it.

He started to drown. He swam back out of the wilder­ness to breathe, to plan, los­ing logic to im­pa­tience. He brought more hands and they churned faster, un­think­ingly, axing what even he had con­sid­ered spar­ing. The old wal­nut tree that had seen 150 years of life on that land, crashed.

Mules were brought to draw ploughs and till the soil but all was bound by the life be­neath, as much as ever there was above.

The landowner’s tem­per turned him to flame. He torched what he could not clear and the flames took hold and took every­thing, in­clud­ing the vine­yard and the an­cient olives.

So be it, he said de­fi­antly, walk­ing to the top again across the ash. It be­gins again.

He didn’t look be­hind him.

Down in the bar­ranc the scat­tered fruits of the seven plums were seed­ing a mul­ti­tude more.

Al­ready the deep roots of all that had been were fired to new, stronger life.

My lament to liv­ing in an age when gen­tle­ness is not a mark of great­ness. And my grat­i­tude for liv­ing in a place where it is.