I don’t remember jacarandas in America. But our first spring here, they carpeted the hill behind our house, and I recall The Kid’s therapist telling me their name. Up to that point, they had been “those purple trees” between me and the boys; now, they had an identity. That same therapist, this week, told me she wants TK to be in her wedding next year.
And I’ve read more about the jacarandas. It turns out they’re considered an invasive species here, because they’ve been brought from other places. When I found this out, I loved them even more. Because it’s sort of what we are, invading Americans who are now thriving in Aussie soil.
So when the time came yesterday to go to TK’s class at school to work on a tree project, I picked up some purple tissue paper on the way in addition to the green construction-paper leaves I carried in a zip-loc bag with me. We were going to make a story tree, an invention of mine inspired by a Brain Pickings email I’d gotten about the first American female cartographer, who transformed historical timelines into visual wonders: lists becoming trees, buildings, all sorts of things; bullet points into art. I told the kids, through the sweat and flush that always accompanies my speaking to groups, about why story matters to me, as a writer. About how it can matter to all of us, because it allows us to connect.
Yes, they nodded when I asked–they remembered the story of TK’s apple brain told earlier that year. And when we started talking about their stories, they lit up even more. We spent the next half hour writing those stories onto leaves and hanging them on the tree, then crumpling tissue paper into flowers. We had our jacaranda.
On Saturday, after a marathon birthday party of ferry rides and building bears, my friend had asked if I needed a tree for this project. I thought about the weak DIY ideas I’d already entertained, the best option being a metal garden tower with spokes coming off it, and answered affirmatively. She led me to a wooden tree with numerous branches coming off it, and it was perfect. I’d been hoping for the right tree. I was glad I’d waited for it too.
And this morning, I went to a different classroom: a kindergarten one, where I handed Little Brother off to a fifth-year “buddy,” watching and feeling my heart unexpectedly leap and break as his eyes scanned the area nervously but he tried not to show it, his gorgeous face trying to be brave. He went into the room while I listened to a maths lecture and ached for him, and when he emerged he was himself but changed. He had grown up a bit. I was proud, and pained.
This has always been my favourite time of year in the US, the shortening of days and cooling of temperatures as Halloween gives way to Thanksgiving and then the most magical of them all comes: the Christmas season. Here, now, the sun rises earlier and sets later and shines brighter and hotter, and I find it is possible for something to feel all wrong and all right at the same time.
They are young, but not as young as they used to be. They are growing, but still the same. We are home, and away.
This morning I ran along the path of the rising sun on a street overlooking the ocean, and the clouds and light arranged themselves so that it looked as though there were footprints out on the water. Miracles do still happen, I know this; walking on water just looks different these days. It looks like boys growing. It looks like stopping to take a photo, then on the way back seeing a cyclist who’s done the same. It looks like trees showing up in the right place, always at the right time.