The Tree Trunk: How to Slay Your Dragons

Isabella Plantation, Richmond Park, Surrey, United Kingdom

It was a cold, rainy weekend. A storm ravaged its way into the night but the protective walls of the house muffled the screams of the outdoors. Hence, the family slept so soundly within its warm, comfortable walls.

Unbeknownst to everybody, a huge surprise awaited outside as morning began. The huge mango tree from the back of the house collapsed. It broke the backyard wall and smashed right into the middle of the street, thus blocking the vehicles passing through. Good thing it was the weekend. So U-turns were quite easy to manoeuvre for the very few automobiles driving along.

‘Let’s try to contact the baranggay captain’s office to help us resolve this,’ said the corporate city girl.

My father only drank from his morning coffee mug. Pensive. ‘And what exactly is your plan when the baranggay gets here?’ The man spoke.

‘Well, since this is a matter of public concern as it is causing motorist traffic, I would kindly request them to have this huge tree towed away. Perhaps they can hire labourers to muscle it up and get this fixed,’ I responded.

Dad wore a smile on his face and almost chuckled as if he knew exactly that I was so characteristically going to say something along those lines.

There was stillness in him for a few moments until he spoke, ‘Okay, kid. I’ll show you how to do this.’

So the man took his machete, went out of the house and began cutting the branches off the massive fallen tree. ‘What are you doing? Don’t do that, you are wasting energy. We could have just hired people!’ I exclaimed.

‘I’m exercising,’ said the true-blue sanguine, as he chopped away the thick stems.

‘Good luck. It will take you the whole day to do that,’ I told him blandly.

He only smiled and uttered, ‘I know.’

Lunchtime came. I recall so vividly the beaming heat of the afternoon sun shining over my father’s sweaty face, but this time he was not alone.

‘What’s going on? Who’s that guy?’ I asked Mum.

‘There is no stopping your father. He was there since this morning and, apparently, one of our neighbours walked by and had a little conversation with him. They started hanging out at first while your Dad was chopping the tree and for some reason, the neighbour left and came back with his own machete.’

‘Ah! Yes, the stereotypical male machismo,’ I thought to myself.

So I delved deeper and asked Mum, ‘Did he talk him into this?’

‘Actually, the man volunteered to help him. They just had so much fun under the heat of the sun!’ She exclaimed.

The curious cat within me went out to check the situation outside, through the disguise of offering cold, iced tea drinks for the two men. There, in lieu of the gigantic tree, was a helpless log lying dead on the ground like a slain dragon. Its branches were gone, piled at the side of the road. One lane was finally free for motorists.

My father drank the iced tea I offered him and gave me a wise-man smile.

Impressed, but I sort of jokingly feigned it. ‘You are still halfway, you know.’

He smiled and replied. ‘I know.’

I left the scene and went back to my room until about 3 p.m., but this time, I heard something different outside. There were now 3, then 4 men with axes and machetes, laughing and story-telling while pounding on that tree trunk. The scene reminded me of a hunting tribe having fun together or a band of soldiers enjoying an extremely great day.

I went out to see what they were up to. Like a scene from a lucid dream, I remember so fondly the sight of my father’s proud face seeing me in that instance. The scent of grass, wood and sweat, his glowing smile, and the machete on his hand — all left a deep-seated memory in my subconscious.

The huge fallen tree was nowhere to be found. Instead, chopped pieces of wood sat neatly on a stack. His newly found friends were at the corner holding their weapons, all with accomplished, brotherly looks on their faces.

‘Who are they, Dad?’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Oh, these are my new friends,’ he nonchalantly said.

We rested under a small shade while watching the sunset, gleaming at that once enormous street blockage. At that particular moment right there, as if frozen by time, my father turned to me with a conversation that I shall never forget in my life.

‘Nak, you saw what I did to that log, didn’t you?’ He looked into my eyes.

‘Yes, quite impressive.’

‘That’s how you deal with your problems. Chop them down into pieces first and no matter how big it seems, don’t drag your burdens as a whole. Just one, one branch at a time. And next thing you know, it’s not so big anymore.’

I nodded. I understood.

The analogy sank. I knew what he was trying to say without saying it. The man was preparing me for a time in which I will encounter a lightning-struck tree blocking my path. As if he knew that it was important to show rather than tell me. For if he did just say the words, it wouldn’t have that much dramatic impact enough to be remembered. It wouldn’t be what it is today, a memory — far more powerful than a thought.

‘Those men, did you ask them to help you?’ I curiously asked him.

‘No, they just passed by and imitated what I was doing,’ he replied.

I didn’t think of it that much then, but now looking back, I knew exactly what the presence of those men meant. It wasn’t male machismo that drove them to help cut that tree. They could have just walked straight and minded their own business. Nevertheless, they were inspired. For it is one of life’s quintessential truths that raw inspiration gets people to conquer tasks with bare hands, calloused feet and smiling faces. Or even help a brother out.

And perhaps there was more to that day than what my father intended to teach me, that there are situations in life that don’t require hiring people to solve your problems for you. It is you who should get your hands dirty, with the sharpness of your wit as your own machete. At the same time, in the process of solving your problems one branch at a time, you might as well inspire others, laugh and enjoy the bonds with the friends you meet along the way.