The Massacre of the Frangipanis

It sounds like a shoot out between gangs of Sicilian Mafiosi ending in the untimely death, or some might say the well overdue demise, of the much-feared Frangipani family. In actual fact it refers to gardening, of a sort.

Central Bali. At the start of a season that should be dry and sunny during the day but which was still wet and overcast. Windy and cool. The occasional day of glorious sunshine reminding us that behind the clouds the sun always shines. He is just extremely elusive at times.

I was on my way home from Ubud following my preferred route through the rice fields. A longer journey but far more pleasurable than travelling down the main road behind bemos belching acrid blue smoke and dodging speeding vehicles driven by Schumacher wannabes. It is a route I travel often. It makes the angel in my heart sing with joy for many reasons.

In one place, on a clear day, there is a soaring vista of Gunung Agung. Breathtaking in her majesty and volcanic omnipotence. Three times a year the fields on either side of the road are flawless mirrors of water reflecting the heavens. Later they become a tapestry of young, vivid lime green rice shoots, growing to become nodding fields of golden grain ready for harvest. Ever changing. Ever beautiful.

And then there are the aromas. If I time it right I get to follow in the fragrant wake of the incense seller. Always a delight. In the mornings the air is fringed with the perfumed aroma of shampoo on freshly washed hair. At noon it is brimming with laughter and chatter from the bales on the side of the road as men gather to talk of the day, their clove-scented cigarettes lending a spicy tang to the breeze. In the evenings smoke rises in pungent, lazy grey tendrils from small bonfires that burn rubbish in the ditches. Sometimes the smell of camphor and balsam wafts across my awareness from balm being rubbed on an old lady’s knees. At others it is the smell of freshly mown grass on the football field. At the height of the hot season it is the glorious elemental smell of earth baked hard by the sun. And on one particular corner, for much of the year, it is the delicious honey-sweet smell of frangipani flowers, found in bountiful clusters on a row of half a dozen or so trees . Heavy and rich. Like riding through a swimming pool of scent.

On this particular day these trees were barely there. They had not been coppiced or pollarded or any of the other fancy words that describe cutting back a tree in order that it can replenish itself and return to an even greater glory. No. To put it quite bluntly, there had been a massacre of the frangipanis on the bend by the temple.

Amongst other things, I am a gardener. When you are tired, feeling jaded or in need of uplifting gardening is a great gift. Just to have your fingers in the earth, tending plants, watching the miracle of life as they grow is a wonderful thing. I used to garden in the wettest part of England. On the edge of a moor with heavy clay soil and more slugs than you would think it possible to have in such a small area. I lunar planted and coaxed to maturity shrubs and flowers that the books said would never grow on such soil, in such weather. I kept insects at bay with essential oils rather than pesticides and used crystals to boost the growth of young plants rather than fertilizer. I talked lovingly to the garden and gave energy healing to ailing plants. It consumed my every spare moment. It repaid me with infinite pleasure and beauty.

I have also spent many years gardening in Asia. So along with the English traits of slow, gentle gardening I am also adept at what I call the ‘chop it back and watch it grow before your eyes’ kind of approach. I am no stranger to making mayhem with a machete amongst the tropical plants that grace my garden with their endless glory. So the fact that this gorgeous row of frangipani trees had been cut back was no surprise at all. It was the way it had been done that ran a knife through my heart.

I rounded the bend ever-conscious that the blooms were returning to my favourite fragrant trees. I was ready and waiting for the heady scent of their presence. Not this day, however. From fifty metres away my eyes fell upon pile upon pile of branches on the ground. Their ends still highlighted with bright white flowers with deep yellow centres. Horrified, I slowed to a crawl and looked at the trees. All of them hacked back. Not chopped, with evident signs of respect as is usually the way, leaving behind a smooth surface for new growth to bud through. Where their long twisted limbs used to be there were ragged stumps. Where there used to be flowing natural energy, a fractured space had taken its place. The demon in my head screamed in fury, berating whoever had made this mess. The angel in my heart told him to quiet down, to take a step back and be cool headed for once.

As I rode away with a heavy heart I gave thought to how easy it is to be judgmental. I like these trees and I love their flowers. And even more so, I appreciate riding past and breathing into the depths of my soul their wonderful fragrance. However, the community decided to cut them back and I needed to be mindful that this will have been done for good reason, with the best intent and in the simplest way possible.

Meandering my way slowly home I reminded myself of the dangers of expectations. There is always the risk we will feel let down if they are not met. Whereas, if we live in the moment and appreciate all that we have in that space in time, then all of life becomes a gift.

By the time I arrived home I realized that whether or not the frangipanis grow back is unimportant. What is important is to give thanks for the joy they brought over the preceding months. And to know that whether they are there or not, that bend will always carry the memory of their fragrance.

And so it is with all our life experiences, regardless of through which sense they enter our memory palaces. Be it by sight, sound, smell, taste or touch they are woven eternally into the tapestry of our lives. They never disappear. They remain not as chains that bind us to the past, but rather as springboards from which to jump into the future.

So now…tell me… where did I put the key to my motorbike? I think it is time to head out and explore. To see what unexpected delights might be waiting around the next bend!

Written in Bali in 2008