Miracle of The Naked Tree

It looms grotesque, a daily reminder of botanical brutality. The Naked Tree. After Ketut’s failed attempt to hack it down for firewood, a task that left an open wound encircling the trunk, I have tried to ignore its unsettling presence. For weeks I expected any day he would come with a saw, a tool more suitable for a tree trunk than his machete, and removing the offending corpse. But time passed to no avail.

The Naked Tree’s Wound

Mrs. Dove and her devoted mate recovered from the loss of their primary residence and are now firmly ensconced in a lovely, leafy home within arm’s reach at the other end of my balcony. In the early light of morning, however, as my eyelids flutter open, the first sight I behold is the pair of them side by side on a bare branch in The Naked Tree.

Mr. and Mrs. D in The Naked Tree at dawn

So the other day when Ketut was in a particularly jovial mood (I had just asked if he would be my body-guard  and accompany me out dancing to ward off the amorous Frenchman that seems to be blind to the fact that I am old enough to be his granny) I pointed to The Naked Tree and shrugged my shoulders in that universal gesture that says, “And your plan is….?” That made him double over with gut busting mirth. I was serious. With righteous indignation I said, “But Ketut…it’s dead! And it’s ugly! You can’t just leave it there.” When he had composed himself, with laugh-tears still wet on his cheeks, he said “No, not dead! See? Leaf!” I gave him a look (again universal language) that implied, “Yeah, you’re crazy Ketut.” Struggling to contain another outburst of hilarity he shook his head, “Not dead, see?” He pointed. I looked. Then I really looked and sure enough, tiny green sprouts have begun to emerge from the impossibly compromised Naked Tree branches. Now the expression on my face was one of shock and awe. “Seriously Ketut?! How can this be? You cut all the way around the trunk. It’s impossible!” By then he had assumed the countenance of patient longsuffering that has become all too familiar and summed it up, “In Bali, okay, many-many.”

Miraculous New Life Appearing

Silly me. In Bali, of course, the natural laws are simply suggestions that may or may not apply. Slap an orchid on the trunk of a coconut  palm and Wallah! you have orchids growing out of a tree trunk. Stick a white bougainvillea branch, and a coral bougainvillea branch on a pink bougainvillea bush and Presto! you have a profusion of pink, white, and coral flowers blossoming from the same stem.

There is a saying here, Plant a rock in Bali and it will grow. It isn’t far from the truth. I apologized to Ketut. Once again I was the clueless foreigner trying to put Bali into my midwestern, Minnesotan-frame-of-reference box. In my realm of possibility, spontaneous regeneration would be cataloged under miracles. In beautiful, equatorial Bali it is biasa hidup, normal life.

Commitment and Moving On

They mate for life. I didn’t know. But this morning I saw them sitting, huddled side by side in The Naked Tree in the pouring rain, and I wondered. They were just sitting there, as though taking a shower together was nothing out of the ordinary, a daily routine. 

So I Googled Mourning Doves and sure enough. Partners for life. They share nest sitting duties while their two white eggs mature. They lay twice in the spring. If one is killed the other will stay at the site for days…mourning.

After the rain subsided they remained in The Tree, fluffing, preening, grooming each other, cooing softly all the while. Sometimes I see one of them sitting among the frangipani blossoms, calling and calling. An answering refrain comes from the rooftop next door and within moments they swoop together into the tree at the other side of my balcony which I suspect has become their new residence. A rustling and shaking of fearsome proportions ensues as they do what doves do in the privacy of their own home!

Ketut assures me that he will find a saw and remove the unsightly tree skeleton from my view. His hatchets weren’t up to the task but we agreed that a saw would do the trick. Now it’s a matter of finding one…all in good time…Bali time…rubber time. I think it will help the doves move on. It might help me, too.

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