There are memories that do not live in words.
They reside in the roots, in gestures, in silences…
in that earth we carry within us without always knowing where it comes from.
The olive tree remembers.
It remembers the hands that touched it,
the generations that passed beneath its branches,
the stories left in its bark,
the wounds… but also the love that outlasted them.
At the center, a woman listens.
She does not look at the world.
She listens to it differently.
Birds come to her,
branches pass through her,
light surrounds her…
and something opens up.
A window.
Perhaps a window to a forgotten memory.
Perhaps simply a window to the self.
And in this silent space,
Fleur is there.
Not to speak for me,
but to remind me to listen
to what I feel before seeking to understand.
Then I discover that some doors do not open with one’s hands.
They open when we stop searching for the answer
and simply accept the act of receiving.
The olive tree holds the memory.
The woman holds the silence.
The light opens the way.
And I stand between the two…
in this new window
where I begin to see differently.
I thought I was painting the memory of the olive tree… perhaps I was simply opening a window to my own.
