Nurturing Trees

I spent a week or so researching trees for a school mural project. The idea is each class will be assigned a tree to study. They will create leaves, seeds, flowers and fruit on clay rounds. The rounds will become leaves on a Tree of Life wall mural. I am pretty excited by the project because it will be long lasting and is located in the perfect spot- an enclave covered in shade by a massive flamboyant tree and filled with picnic tables where the first graders eat their snack.

Since my Kinshasa days I have been fascinated by the way humans congregate under and around trees.  It would make a stunning photo essay. The ways people use trees for leisure, as part of business, for protection and cover from the sun. Trees become holders of things, shelves. They become parts of buildings and grow through walls. Trees exhibit a resilience that is simply admirable.

My moringa trees are an excellent example. There are two miracle trees- useful for everything from medicine to cleaning water-growing on my little patch of dirt I call a yard. They grow faster than we can keep up with, every so often stripping them of their leaves, drying them and using them for tea and all kinds of garnishes. I think the nounou was particularly disturbed by the way they shed their leaves all over the driveway. Every so often she would ask if she could cut them. I obliged as long as we collected the leaves for use. I have noticed that one of the stumps has stopped regrowing- highly unusual as they love nothing more than a good trim. I suspect she treated it with something.

Around the same time, I took a few of the chopped branches and stuck them in the earth, trying to create a little fence around my plants (the children are constantly playing and stepping there and I was trying to keep people out of the area.) In response, the trees have bloomed and now I have four moringa trees. It was that easy. That unplanned. The trees decided to grow despite me (or my nounou.)

In more recent days, the prospect of a new president has me more concerned than ever about the environment. Like most Americans I am reading everything I can, trying to educate and activate. The potential problems are overwhelming. This article, before Trump was even elected, merits a link mostly because of what it doesn't talk about. Perhaps history shows that humans have a tendency towards self-implosion, only to come out better for it on the other side (supposing you are not among the million or so sacrificed in the purge) but history doesn't really show us how the environment will fare.

It may well be that we've done enough damage to alter the earth irrevocably. And if we haven't already, four years with Trump's team will surely set us firmly on that path. Of course, the earth will continue to spin, it's just a question of in what state.

All of this uncertainty brings me back to the trees. Each tree I researched resurrected memories of a relationship. The avocado tree with her branches full of fruit, bending low to offer me her gifts and raising back up again at the end of the cycle, patiently growing again.  The star fruit tree at the end of our driveway, offering up its bittersweet fruit for eating, lending her shape to colors for stamped birthday card designs. There were the mango trees, whom I made a portrait series of in all their stages of beauty from birth to decay. And the glorious mountain apple tree who showered me in neon pink carpets as she shed her flowers to bloom forth soft, pale apples. Banana trees and bamboo trees providing sturdy leaves for making art and strong stems for creations of all kinds.

I want to get back to nurturing trees the way they nurtured me. We could all do with nurturing some trees. We are so far from nature we've forgotten our dependence. It's what the water protectors are all about. It's what we all need to be about.

Trading in the trees

Two days left in Kinshasa. I've said all my goodbyes, packed nearly all of our things and given away what I could. I'm just left to wonder how you say goodbye to a country? The last thought on my mind, as Christian updates me on his apartment hunting from Abidjan, is the trees. I've managed to live in this city of 9 million by hiding away in the jungle.

My morning "view" it's just a lot of green

And more green....a warm cocoon of trees and plants

My breakfasts, as most meals, are spent on the porch listening to the birds and looking out over a calming sea of green. My commute has included nothing more than dirt roads and tropical plants. My evenings are spent on the same back porch, eating dinner, reading, browsing the internet, talking with the kids, all the time surrounded by the sounds of nature- nightbird calls, the rustle of lizards and cats and other creatures creeping through the dark, the chirping of crickets (sometimes so loud we actually make a beeline for the living room, shutting the door behind us in relief- painfully loud!)

True- Kinshasa is a city of dirt. There are often dirt mounds filling up the roadsides (remnants of the open drainage system they clean out periodically, shoveling huge piles of muck and mud that remain to dry in the sun and crumble eventually back into the earth.) The trees along the boulevard have long ago been cut down and cement is everywhere. Small patches of manicured grass and little squares filled with flower garden-ish arrangements may line the main road but off to the side streets it's all just more dirt. Returning from Abidjan, with plush greenery filling the eye no matter which direction one turns it seems,  made Kinshasa's hues of brown and gray and beige all the more striking.  I definitely remember the feeling that my eyes were drinking in Abidjan, filling up from a long parched thirst I hadn't really known was there. I  returned to Kin only to become withered and dry again.

But that's out there, on the streets.  Here in my home I am surrounded by luxuriant plant growth and tall, protective trees. I need the trees. They feed me almost as much as the sun, keeping me grounded and connected to the earth. The boys have spent countless hours scavenging fruits, coming home with bags and buckets of mangoes, star fruits, avocadoes, and apples. They've passed their days devising games that require them to climb branches, build forts and hide within the thick, prickly pockets of bamboo and elephant grass. They've come home with scrapes and scratches and itchy rashes and plenty of tales of their spying and stealth.

Mohamed in the trees searching for apples

On the eve of the eve of our departure, I am getting a little panicky. An apartment. In the city. No grass, no yard, no walks through the forest in the misty, foggy morning or the cool, dusky evening. I am already vowing to fill our space up with plants- though I have never been that successful with indoor plants. I consider that we will have no porch, no outdoor space to be in and I try to turn instead to the fact that we'll have running water- inside- I won't need to lug buckets up the steps. Always something to be grateful for, right?

I spent a good year or two making our front porch my bedroom. It served as a studio and a sleeping space. I'd done a lot of homework to find the right solution to my ever persistent back problems and came up with hammock sleeping as a remedy. I was gently rocked to slumber every night with a cool breeze blowing in and an occasional sprinkle of rain when the storms came. The night creatures serenaded me with lullabies and the taxi singers woke me each morning- 5 am without fail. It was like sleeping in a treehouse or camping outside. Transitioning to the indoor bedroom took some time.

As I suppose the big move to a real city will take some time as well. Christian and I talked about a lot of the things we would need for this move- his ambition to have everything set up and waiting for us when we arrive. I tried to prioritize for him so he wouldn't be overwhelmed. We'll need to take it slowly, acquire things bit by bit. I'd prefer a stove and a refrigerator before beds. I'm happy to sleep on the floor for awhile if it means I can eat yogurt for breakfast and bake fresh rolls. I don't mind using our containers for tables and chairs and we can always string up our hammocks in the living room for relaxing.  But I forgot to mention the trees.

Jungle path we know well

It's not that I have taken them for granted. One of the things my morning walk to school, and even walks from building to building throughout the day, has resulted in has been a continual sense of gratitude and humility. I have realized how spoiled we've been for most of the moments we've lived here. (Occasionally the black flies and gossip mills have functioned at such extremes I have wished to be somewhere, anywhere off campus, but for the majority of minutes and hours and days, I have remained slightly in awe of our privilege.)The trees are as essential to me as air and so perhaps I forgot to mention I'll need a good dose of them around. I hope he won't mind living with trees.

Below the equator

Staying in Kinshasa all "summer" means I am a bit more integrated with the rhythm of the country (and get slightly annoyed at people who still use 'winter' 'summer' 'spring' and 'fall' to delineate periods of time.) Kinshasa does not have these seasons, but she does have changes in weather- a perfectly acceptable definition as provided by Merriam-Webster.  I am aware that people like to use the weather terms they grew up with and are familiar with. I am also aware that weather words mean different things in different regions.

There was the time this past July when people in Kin were saying it "snowed." As a native New Yorker, I am more than aware that it definitely did not snow in Kinshasa. But as someone living in the city during the moment, I recognized the cold weather and out-of-season rain that fell. Bizarre at it's best. It had that first snow feel-something miraculous falling from the sky leaving you with delight, wonder and just a little bit of apprehension (where is this coming from? why is it happening?)

Like most equatorial regions, Kinshasa has a rainy and a dry season. Two major patterns of weather to mark the year. In between are small fluctuations (people like to talk about the mini-dry season somewhere in late January or February) and natural anomalies (if such a phrase can exist.)

I notice the trees. Because I am from upstate New York, trees play a major role in my ability to connect with the rhythms of time. Being surrounded by mountains that turn glowing colors, eventually shed all of their beauty and gratefully grow it all back again has made me keenly aware of leaves and their cycles. I notice the leaves around Kinshasa.

There is definitely a period of shedding and regrowth. It just happens to occur at a slightly faster rate around here. There is even a bit of changing of colors. The trees that do this aren't abundant but you can spot them growing in pairs here and there. Little dots of red and sometimes yellow leaves getting ready to take their plunge to the earth.

"Spring" is also a fast-forward season. No sooner than you spot blossoms appearing on the bare branches, they are blooming before your eyes. I wanted to capture some beautiful little leaf buds on a particular tree by the admin building. By the time I had gotten back there the next day, they'd all bloomed into little leaf couplets.

For some of the trees, this shedding and regrowing seems to happen year round. Of course other trees have a longer cycle. Fruit trees need time to grow and form their scrumptious delights.

But there is a fun tree just at the bottom of the hill that I've yet to snap a photo of. It is low to the ground with wide branches and many leaves. Underneath, women- and the occasional man- sit chipping away at stones. They are on my mind often and I want to stop and chat, take photos, ask about their work. They inspire so many questions and thoughts and motivations for me. But the tree, that deserves it's own story. It functions to provide shade and also serves as a kind of shelving unit. When the leaves have fallen, you can see all the containers, clothing bundles and other things stored there. When the leaves grow back, they provide a camouflage for the hidden treasures.

My first few years in Kinshasa left me with a mistaken sense of time rolling forward as August and September seem to be months of falling leaves and huge jump-in style leaf piles. I tended to get a little confused around November and December when the dormancy didn't kick in and instead there was vibrant greens and flowering buds all around.

I'm a bit more in tune this year- after several months of gray skies, cool wind,downright chilly nights and drooping leaves. August and September are months of renewal. The sun is back, the days are warm and the trees are finding their voice.

Some bare limbs against a backdrop of greens

Leaf lovers dream pile

August and September are months of renewal