The Twelve Gifts from the Garden . Charlene Costanzo

      We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.

      —Abraham Lincoln

      The silk floss tree is a bit like a rose bush on steroids. Its trunk thorns are so large and plentiful that the sight of them can be disturbing yet riveting. You want to avoid it and yet observe it closely. At least that was my reaction the first time I saw this tree.

      There’s one such tree in the Moorings garden. She stands alone on a small side path, with an open and clear area around it to allow her room to grow.

      Until recently, the tough, thorny trunk made this tree seem masculine to me. But after visiting this tree several times, I see it as feminine. I’ve also heard of a Bolivian folktale about a goddess whose spirit is trapped in the silk floss tree. According to the legend, she was kidnapped by evil spirits who feared that the son she would bring into the world would punish them for evil deeds. The son was born and managed to escape, but the goddess remains trapped. That story explains the shape of the trunk with its mid-level fullness, bulge, or baby bump, as some would say. Perhaps being kidnapped, trapped, and left alone explains those angry looking thorns too.

      Putting that little-known story aside, I’ve heard people call it the Beauty and the Beast tree as well as the medieval torture tree. Ceiba speciose is the botanical name for this specimen. I understand that in the eyes of some dendrophiles (tree lovers), the silk floss tree is the most beautiful tree in the world.

      A close-up study of the trunk shows a verdant green bark beneath all the large, pointy thorns, which some observers see as spikes of medieval weaponry. But I just conversed with a woman who thought the thorns resemble seashells, not in shape and form, but in the tan and brown patterns on the surface of the thorns. She is among the fans of this tree.

      I imagine a tongue-in-cheek sign here:

      Caution to Dendrophiles.

      Hugging a Silk Floss Tree Is Inadvisable.

      Hug at Your Own Risk.

      I stand with the mid-afternoon sun behind me, warming my back and casting long, ominous-looking shadows on the stucco wall behind this tree. The shadows suggest lifelessness or grief. And yet, as I shift my focus from the shadow to the trunk, I see verdancy and feel joy. Green is a color of healing, growing, hope, and new life. This tree is not only alive and healthy, it is growing, rapidly. Right now it is about ten to twelve feet tall. It can grow as tall as sixty feet.

      Some silk floss trees don’t flower until their twentieth year; the average age for flowering is eight. When the flowers do appear, they are bell or trumpet shaped, about the size of a large opened hand. The narrow, delicate petals in various shades of pink resemble those on some hibiscus plants. The lush, dense flowering looks like a celebration of life. Besides the beauty of its blooms, this tree has been valued for the silken floss in its pods. There was a time when this silk floss was used to fill life jackets.

      I’m fond of this tree. I look forward to watching her mature as I continue to grow and change too. I wonder what lessons I’ll see in her. This tree is already urging me to overlook superficial appearances, especially of thorniness. What seems hard in a person’s exterior is quite often a protective shell for soft vulnerabilities. For some people, acting tough was required in childhood as a demonstration of strength. Then acting tough became a habitual way of being.

      This reminds me of an older relative who once made a gruff first impression on me. Actually, he was a bit thorny all the time. Tall and thin, he had received the nickname “Spike” in his youth. This seemed to fit Uncle Spike’s personality, too.

      In many situations over the years, I had noticed a distinct difference in the way Uncle Spike and another uncle, Ray, treated children. Uncle Ray paid attention to what children said. He really listened. You could tell by the follow-up questions he asked and by how he applauded their accomplishments. He also genuinely enjoyed playing board games and engaging in contests with them. Uncle Spike did not relate as well to children. In fact, sometimes he was dismissive and gruff toward them. The personality he showed most often seemed covered in spikes and thorns to me. For a time, I judged him in “unclehood” as not good enough. But the problem with judging anyone as not good enough in any particular area is that it easily turns into judging the whole person as not good enough, period.

      One summer day we had a serious plumbing problem in our home. The primitive basement in our century-old Victorian farmhouse was filling with sewage backup. As soon as he heard about it, Uncle Spike showed up in hip boots, prepared to help drain and clean the basement. He showed no reluctance or reservation about dealing with the mess or the stench. As I watched Uncle Spike descend the rickety wooden staircase, out of the blue Uncle Ray came to mind. While Uncle Ray was great with kids, he could not fix a thing and he would not have been willing to enter that basement to try.

      Aha! I realized that I’d been comparing them and judging unfairly. Sometimes a person’s strengths and talents may not be obvious. We all have different personalities and skill sets. And who am I to judge them in the first place?

      Since that incident, I’ve had a clear mental picture of Uncle Spike in his hip boots after the job was done. He looks a little scruffy, but I see no thorns. In fact, he’s got a sparkle of pride in being able to help. This image serves as a touchstone for me—a reminder to accept and appreciate people as they are. When I see someone’s thorny, hard exterior, I can shift to look for the sparkle. Or now that I am getting to know the silk floss tree, I’ll look for the flower and overlook the thorns.

The Beach Garden