The Mediterranean scrub brush has turned from exotic to home.
When did this happen?
I recognize the smell of the pungent flowering of the carob tree and the dusty aromatics, barely alive. Autumn still carries the muted colors of summer, a faded postcard forgotten in the sun. Another year has passed, and the olives have turned from green, purple and black, boughs heavy and tired. Soon the rains will come and the recycle will begin again.
It is strange how time and repetition can transform the insignificant into an integral part of life, melding the past into a coherent stream that flows into the future. It occurs imperceptibly, little rituals and habits that begin to take shape and slowly distinguish themselves with their timelessness.
This landscape, dotted with figs, pomegranates and olive trees, is biblical scenery a tour guide might say. But for me, it is the land of memories, intertwined with daily life.
Here olives trees are ubiquitous, an agricultural tradition and necessity from antiquity but also commonly grown along roadsides and parks. I see how the spring brings tiny blossoms that eventually settle on the ground like snowflakes. As summer progresses, the fruits grow and transform until once again, it is time to gather them for their golden oil or to cure as table olives.
It is a long way from New York where I recognized olives as another supermarket item, just more sophisticated in their stylishly designed jars. Olive trees are part of a land I have come to love, and where I have also grown roots. Are these feelings for a land any less significant or real because it was formed within one lifetime, belonging to a single person? Does it diminish its realness or importance?
Sometimes I look around at my surroundings and realize that after all these years, I can call it home.