One evening last week a hailstorm battered the very life out of my garden. The fig tree that had just acquired a whole new canopy of leaves stood as if an army of caterpillars just passed through. Each leaf was mutilated with holes. The frangipani and lilies, the all spice tree and the japonica, the banana and the hibiscus...none of them were spared.
The next morning as I walked though my garden trying to come to terms with the devastation, it struck me that only the grass bore no visible effects. Was there a lesson there I wondered?
The evening before the grass was covered in ice. But in the dappled light of the morning, I only saw a new burst of green. As if the grass have drawn life from even the bleakest of that battering and injected themselves with fresh vigour.
That to forget is to survive. So wouldn't that be an act of courage? The supreme one, in fact?