Guns and a Tree
The tree I have nurtured for two years is destroyed. Its death reminds me of a son I lost. Every little good I try to do is opposed with a greater force.
My car bakes in the sun. My sixteen year old motorcycle gathers dust. I cannot run to anyone's satisfaction. I cannot understand the point of office arguments, or solve them. I do not know how to make any person happy.
On Indonesia, near Central Java, a volcano is about to burst. The people there tend to their fields and cattle in the face of death. Like them, without hope, I tend to things as best I can.
Like a peasant, helplessly, I watered my dead tree. I obeyed the law and watered all our grass by hand. Ask anyone, it takes me seven days of effort to be worthless. There is not enough hours in the day to protect a tree, or work up to ordinary.
How would you be in the face of that volcano? What would your last purpose be? At the office what do you seek? How should things really be? Each day someone urges me to harm someone. Is that what you want? Is that my purpose? Is that the way to get up to ordinary?
Someone kills a tree, messes up an order, breaks something, wastes cell phone minutes, loses gasoline, is the answer always more harm? Is there never sufficient harm? Do we always need more?
Underneath the volcano's shadow I, an ignorant peasant tending to my fields in silence. Criticize me, insult me, take my seeds, break my tools, destroy my crops. I will go on the best I can. I am too weak to harm you.
For me, alone and unprotected in my fields less harm might be better.
For those of you that put your faith in harm, rejoice. The tree, the symbol of all my hopes is dead.
I am only the lowest most ignorant peasant there can be, without a thought in my head worthy of note, but if there are any among us who do not put their faith in harm maybe we could try to stress each other less and help each other more.
If we all planted a tree of hope some might live, those that believe in harm might not get every hope we have.
I embarrass everyone who is aware of me. My effort is so large and the result is so small. On Sunday, what if the beaches were empty, TV's turned off, bombs and guns less active and other embarrassing people were trying to make things better.
Would not things get better, if one by one we tried to make them better?