The Olive and The Wheat.
June 30, 2012
The wind is rustling in the wheat field today. The wheat always thinks there is a symphony being played when that happens.
Normally the wheat lives alone. Not lonely of course for there is always lots of wheat to keep itself company, and an old olive tree in the middle of the field that has wonderful stories. Stories about things called winter, and years, and long, long ages. The wheat always did think the tree made them up because you see, the wheat only ever lived for one season and each new generation had no memory of the past.
One thing about the wheat though, was that given its communal nature it was always looking for more company. And it always asked the Old Olive Tree for the stories about the funny roaming plants it called humans. Sometimes they were solitary like their favorite tree; sometimes they loved to be as close and jolly as the wheat itself. But always they were different, despite being the same. It confused the wheat and made it curious.
One day a group of humans came to the field. The Old Tree smiled and spread his branches a little further to shade them as they picnicked and laughed and enjoyed themselves at his roots. But the wheat was in a riot of rushing and tossing with the excitement of the visit and kept rustling and whispering an invitation to come play. They must have heard for eventually one of the saplings with the long silky leaves stood and began to leap on the breeze and go tossing among them. The other silky saplings soon followed leaving the older trunk to sit and talk to the Old Olive. The wheat was in a frenzy of delight, tossing this way and that as it played with the wild human saplings. At last though the humans grew tired and they gathered their things and left.
The sudden loss of their new friends did not sadden the wheat or the tree as much as you might think, for the wheat died soon enough and the tree lived long enough that they both understood just how fleeting most things are. The humans had apparently learned the same, because just before they left each of them carved their name into the tree, just deep enough to become a memory for the next passerby to find. Once they had left, the Old Olive watched the excited swaying and rustling going on amongst the wheat and he couldn't help but wonder which of them was happiest. He, because he would live long and always cherish the memory, or the wheat, because its life would fade before the bloom wore off their joy at the meeting?