What the Ginkgos of Lisbon taught me about standing my ground, seasons, and the blessings I carried with me.
Fall has always been my favourite time of the year. There’s a particular slant to the light, a golden-filtered softness that turns the world introspective. In Islamabad, it was a symphony of warmth before the crisp winter. I remember the sheer bliss of sitting in our own decorated yard, a book in my lap, a bowl of freshly peeled oranges and roasted peanuts beside me, basking in the sun like a contented cat. From his first-floor window, Omais Bhai would be settled in his recliner, and we’d exchange lazy waves and snippets of conversation across the quiet air. It was a simple, profound blessing. A tableau of peace and belonging I didn’t fully know I was storing away.
Now, in Lisbon, I miss that particular blessing. But I am learning that gratitude is not a finite resource; it expands to fill new vessels.
Here, the trees put on a different, but no less spectacular, show. The earth tones are there, but they’re punctuated by strokes of brilliant, unexpected color. The sunny yellow Ginkgo trees, in particular, stop me in my tracks. In December, they gleam with an incandescent, pure gold that seems to outshine the twinkling Christmas lights strung across every street. They are like fallen suns, holding light in their very leaves. The cork oaks stand rugged and resilient in their patterned bark, and the olive trees shimmer with a silvery-green steadfastness. Each has its own display, its own quiet statement.
I realize, with a smile, that trees have been my constant companions, my silent supporters. I look at them not with the detached admiration of a botanist, but with the wide-eyed wonder of a five-year-old. I find myself gazing up at their sheer, patient height, marveling at the spectacular show they put on by the simple, profound act of standing there.
I’ve developed a habit. I walk up to a particularly grand one, place my palm flat against its trunk, and say it aloud: “Gosh, you’re so beautiful.”
And somehow, I always feel it smile back. There’s a vibration there, an ancient, wordless exchange.
In their silence, they are the greatest teachers. They give me hope about standing your ground, even when the winds of change howl. They show me how to weather adversity, not by fighting the storm, but by bending with deep, resilient roots. They demonstrate how to embrace every season: the lush abundance of summer, the fiery letting-go of autumn, the stark rest of winter, the tender hope of spring. They do not apologize for their own splendor, nor do they resent their neighbor’s. A Ginkgo does not try to be an Olive tree. They stand together, a community, each celebrating the other’s unique beauty.
I pat the trunk of a Lisbon Ginkgo, its gold raining down around me. I am far from that Islamabad yard, from Omais Bhai’s window. But the love I learned there, the love for quiet moments, for gentle light, and for the steadfast company of growing things. I carried it with me. It didn’t get lost in transit. It simply found new soil.
The trees here are teaching me that home isn’t just a place you leave or arrive at. It’s a way of seeing. It’s the ability to find a familiar friend in an unfamiliar bark, to recognize a blessing in a new kind of light, and to understand that sometimes, the deepest roots are the ones you bring with you, and choose to grow wherever you are planted.
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