The Tree of Enlightenment by Amy Scholten
What does
the word vacation mean to you? Freedom
from responsibilities? A chance to relax and have fun? For me it’s an
opportunity to increase my clarity and experience things more fully. It’s a
clearing out process that happens when we’re in a more relaxed state and
different environment. The word vacation
ultimately means to “vacate” or leave behind.
This summer we vacationed on the small Caribbean island of Aruba, where my husband Brian has family roots. Once we got there, most of the cares of “real life” were blown out to sea on balmy breezes and washed away by turquois beaches. The biggest problem was a palapa shortage. Palapas are small beach shelters roofed with palm leaves. After standing in line and missing out on a palapa several times, we sought shade beneath a large, sprawling banyan tree instead. The tree sat directly behind a shelter where a young native couple sold tours and water activities to tourists.
With its
multiple layers, bidirectional roots, and branches reaching into the great
Abyss, the banyan tree is a symbol of the self and its journey toward
enlightenment. Still, we grumbled about our fate. How had life become so competitive that getting a stupid beach palapa
was even a struggle? With that thought, the balmy trade winds wooshed another
insult in our direction: cigarette smoke. I needed no further proof that Paradise
was an illusion. I looked over at our chain smoking palapa-less neighbor glued
to his computer. Paul Fussel, author of The
Dumbing of America, referred to people who couldn’t put their computers and
cell phones down, even on a beguiling beach, as “connectivity assholes.”
My plan was
to read for a few minutes and then head to the water to get away from connectivity
asshole. When I finally shifted my attention off the secondhand smoke, I
noticed that the banyan tree was constantly full of birds, birds that were
always eating. It would only be a matter of time before we’d be “shat” upon, I
thought, hapless and palapa-less, a spectacle for our fellow tourists and
fodder for their humorous vacation stories.
As I made my
way down to the water, I sensed something behind me. And then a small and gentle
hand suddenly held mine. I turned around to find a little black boy in diapers,
smiling at me. He greeted me in Papiamento, the native language of Aruba. I
recognized him as the quiet and serene child of the native couple selling tours
and water sports. So tender was the
moment that all curmudgeonly thoughts of the day faded in a twinkling. In that
instant, I was overcome by a feeling of being held in the arms of a loving
universe. How miraculous that a child’s innocence and unguarded heart could be
so powerful, like the warm Aruban sun melting layers of ice dams that had slowly
been crushing my soul.
The boy’s
name was Kiko. For the next few days, I watched him and his family living and
working close to nature. Kiko had great freedom for a tiny tike. He toddled
down the beach by himself to explore, but always seemed to know when he had
strayed too far from his parents. Fully engrossed in all his activities, he was
an amazing swimmer and castle builder. Despite a dearth of toys, he never seemed
bored, fussy or burdensome. His parents seemed equally serene. His father, Dawid,
a tall, lanky young man with braids pulled into a small ponytail, often took
the boy out on a paddleboard late in the afternoon. We eventually became
friendly with Dawid and his wife Junaida. They were excited to learn of Brian’s
Aruban roots.
One
afternoon Dawid offered to let me borrow his paddleboard. I had seen only young
people on paddleboards, and I had seen several fall off them when boats created
waves. Though I felt too old and stiff to get up on one, Dawid taught me how. Awkwardly,
I managed, kneeling and paddling and bobbing along into the sunset. The familiar
started to shrink in the distance as the waves carried me into the vastness of
an unknown ocean, challenging both my balance and my mastery of the oar. It was
exhilarating and frightening to see my surroundings from an entirely different
perspective. Once again I felt the universe reach out – this time through calming,
caressing rays of sun that seemed to awaken an inner wisdom, focus and
confidence as I navigated back to shore.
After hours
in the water, I settled back under the tree to relax and read, but it was
difficult to concentrate. Exquisitely beautiful and flutey-sounding bird calls kept
coming from the branches above. I spent 10 minutes struggling to see what the
elusive songster looked like. Suddenly, the bright orange and black bird flew
down and presented himself right on my beach chair! From his appearance and
song I guessed he was an oriole of some sort. Internet research confirmed that I
was correct – he was a South American Troupial, a type of oriole.
The Troupial
became a daily visitor, often accompanied by a bright yellow female to whom he
was very attentive. I held Brian’s hand. “Two love birds in the tree and two
love birds under the tree.” When Dawid, Junaida and Kiko left their station
briefly, the mischievous Troupials rummaged through Styrofoam boxes of food
left on their picnic table. However, they never “shat” on us.
Just as I
attempted to return to my reading, a new character—a large, bright green iguana—
made his debut. He too, was a “regular” who liked to pose for pictures. Two
paragraphs into my book later, another “regular” caught my attention: a lanky
young native man sporting long brown dreadlocks and a tri-colored Rastafarian
hat. He strolled along the beach with a trail of eight multicolored dogs trotting
obediently behind, bemusing many tourists.
As each day
passed, Kiko, Dawid, Junaida, the singing Troupials, the posing green iguanas, the
Rasta Dog Walker, and the chain smoking connectivity asshole were there on the
scene. And then I realized something: we were there on purpose, one big
eclectic happy family. The clearing out process had been accomplished. We felt
healthy, whole and at peace, with the sun on our backs and life unfolding all
around us beneath the banyan tree and beyond.
Would I go
back and trade it for a palapa? Not on your life.
