The old man sits quietly beside the orange tree, surveying the morning activities going on in the square, breathing slowly as if in meditation. Directly opposite, an art gallery is setting up a mobile installation of a local artist outside the old Basilica. The building, built sometime in the 1500’s, provides a striking backdrop for the creative works being displayed.
The frenetic energy of the city’s businesses preparing for the day has always energised him. He watches, he feels connected, but he’s not caught in it. The peace and solitude that his soul has sought since he was a child is not always compatible with the vibrant, chaotic, passionate culture he was born into. But this? Somehow this works. It feeds his soul.
Despite his sensitivities, no-one would deny his passionate nature. The ancestral blood pumping through his veins comes from a long line of men – and women - whose instincts were born in passion. The man glances sideways and his eyes rest softly on the orange tree, a tree that one of his forefathers planted with his own hands. He marvels at how the orange tree flourishes despite the ongoing growth and evolution of the city, and the many footsteps passing by. He smiles, recalling the family folklore surrounding the orange tree, stories passed down through generations, almost as a roadmap or manual for life. As family legend has it, not long after the Basilica was completed, one of his forefathers planted the tree for his greatest love, his wife to be. He had worked hard to win the permission of her Father to marry, coming from much lesser means. She had captured his heart, and he would stop at nothing to prove his worth and have her by his side.
Here was an ancestral checkpoint on the roadmap of life: own your own worth.
So like a man possessed he planted their first orange tree for his love of their daughter. The planting of the tree was more than a symbol of his love for his wife. This self belief and impetus to follow his heart’s longing led him to pioneer and lead the orange growing industry of Andalucía. The old man’s family has been celebrated for his forefather’s contribution, and every family member since has been involved in the industry in some way as a way of paying homage to the ancestors. It has given them much.
The old man’s eyes move slowly as he watches another man wheel a trolley of oranges into a shopfront. The men exchange a wave. There is so much comfort in the familiar. He has had the same routine since he was married himself, sitting here in this chair each morning. The apartment building behind him sits on the original family property. Every generation has had a presence here, and have preserved and understood the importance of the orange tree next to him. It is their talisman, and a powerful reminder to them all of where they come from and who they are.
His own Father had been a traditionalist. His mother, borne of the family line, was strong and persuasive, also a passionate force to be reckoned with. His eyes fill with tears at this thought. He knows that without her he would not be here today. She chose his Father well, but the hardness in him did not always allow for flexible thinking or understanding of a boy with a sensitive nature. Without the ferocity of his mother’s orange-growing blood, he would not have thrived, nor had the confidence to pursue the opportunities that he has had, and is still looking forward to today.
Another checkpoint on the ancestral roadmap: be who you are.
He has worked hard to pass the essence of this onto his own children. They currently traverse all corners of the globe in pursuit of their dreams. His eyes fill again with tears as he pictures each of them. They are kind, intelligent, caring and passionate people. His wife would be proud.
The old man brushes away his tears as he allows the loss of her to wash over him. Like all men in his family, he chose his partner well. He had many lovers before her and thought he was immune, that the family orange-tree growing gene had bypassed him, and that his Father was right about his difference, that perhaps he had no substance - until she appeared. Then like a man possessed, and just like his forefathers, he pursued her as if nothing in life mattered. He closes his eyes savouring the memories, and to help bring the image of her forth. He takes a sharp breath, remembering her face, her smile. Her scent. The essence of his one great love.
His mind hones in on one memory in particular: the day he proposed, delivering her gift. He had captured an image of her one day in ecstatic joy, as she taught a child how to channel their own creativity in a painting. It was heart in action, and she was the living expression of ‘exquisite’. The image burned in his mind that day, and he worked day and night for weeks until it was complete. The portrait of his beloved is still one of his most celebrated works today.
Again, a checkpoint on the ancestral roadmap: pursue that which you love.
They lived together in the building behind him, raised their family, and partnered and supported each other in their pursuits, and in raising their own children. Both teachers and artists in their own right, they led a vibrant life at home, at times sharing their gifts and themselves across the globe. It was a union on all levels.
At times when he reflects, the pain drives him to wish he could go back in time and keep more of her to himself. He knows this isn’t rational. They didn’t live and love each other with an ounce of greediness, or to clip each other’s wings, which was part of their special formula. They gave each other love, respect, freedom, and they gave it freely.
Another checkpoint on the ancestral roadmap: hold each other up, be generous and celebrate what you have.
He knows he needs to feel grateful for the time they had and the life they shared, he knows it was extraordinary. He is not there yet. The pain of her absence in his life still grips him like a cold hand around his heart. He is learning to ride the pain, and is starting to express it through his work. He knows this is the only way through it.
A truck makes its way into the square and the driver honks the horn contunously, breaking the man’s reverie. The driver sees the old man sitting next to the orange tree and waves excitedly. The old man breaks into a generous smile and waves in return. His son insisted on driving today with the same enthusiasm he has shown for everything in his life since the day he was born. His son is a living expression of his Mother, and this is something he can easily feel grateful for. The warmth of these thoughts floods his healing heart, the cold hand easing its grip.
He stands to stretch his body. Today he is the celebrated artist of the installation being erected before him. He will share the experience with his children who are all here to be by his side. He will dedicate it to his one great love, as many of the works were born out of the pain of losing her - and thank the passionate and loving forces that have placed him here in this moment.
He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes briefly, connecting to his inner stillness as the Basilica bells begin to chime. His son reaches him and they embrace without restraint. Although it agonises him, he can do this without her. This is but one moment in time in the fabric of his life, in the greater tapestry of his ancestral story.