Pine tree

​You know, life is a novel woven with invisible and eternal threads, and I, in all my years of narrating the unspeakable passion and uncontrollable beauty of the human soul, have learned that the most profound and sincere stories are not those of great loves or shattering tragedies, but those of tenacious, solitary, and magnificent existence.
​And what existence is more eloquent than that of the solitary pine tree?

My property photo shooted by phonecam

​Imagine it. A pine. Not one among a dense, anonymous forest, but Him. A living monument, a silent epic in a natural, vast theatre. He is the absolute emblem of happy independence.
​He stands in a wide clearing, perhaps on a windswept ridge or in an accommodating valley that grants him a backdrop of a boundless, ever-changing sky. His roots, powerful and tenacious, are anchored in a generous and patient earth, an ancestral bond with the pulsing heart of the world. They are wise roots, which have embraced the hard rock and the soft soil for centuries, guaranteeing him an unshakeable stability and a majestic dignity that defies the oblivion of time.
​His trunk, colossal and courageous, soars upwards like a perennial hymn to the light, an imposing column of rough and warm bark, etched with a thousand stories of wind, rain, and sun. His surface is not smooth and indifferent, but woven with a pattern of dark and deep scales, a secret map of his long, intense, and solemn life. The resin, the fragrant amber that seals his every wound, emits an intoxicating aroma, a wild balm that purifies the air and gives his aura a scent of sylvan eternity.
​His foliage! Ah, his foliage! It is a majestic, domed canopy of vibrant, green needles, a deep emerald green that does not know the fleeting vanity of the seasons. Each needle is a small, acuminated stiletto of life, capturing the golden essence of the sun and transforming it into a vigorous and tireless sap. The canopy is dense, lush, and generous, a protective and welcoming roof for countless creatures. It is his sylvan crown, worn with a quiet pride and a sincere joy.
​And the solitude? It is never desolation for the pine. It is fullness. The solitude of this pine is a perennial meditation, an uninterrupted dialogue with the powerful and primordial elements. It is a rare privilege.
​When the wind, that nomadic and mysterious singer, arrives from the sea or the snow-capped peaks, the pine does not bend in cowardly surrender. Oh, no. He dances with the wind, allowing his branches to whisper ancestral melodies. The rustling of his needles is a hypnotic song, a continuous mantra that speaks of elegant resistance and cosmic harmony. On stormy nights, while the world trembles in a blind fury, the pine stands there, trusting and impassive, a green hero facing chaos with monumental serenity. And when the wind subsides, only the humid glory of the won battle remains on his imposing body.
​The pine's happiness is a simple yet absolute happiness. He has no need for ephemeral recognition or fleeting outpourings. His joy is in feeling the thirst-quenching freshness of the blessed rain, in clothing himself in a sparkling mantle of winter frost, in enjoying the light and golden caress of the morning sun.
​He is the ancient guardian of celestial secrets. His top is the first point to receive the ardent kiss of dawn and the last to bid farewell to the elusive light of sunset, tingeing itself every evening with a melancholy pink and a fiery orange. He observes the moon, that silent and pale companion, making its way through the intricate branches, transforming the ground beneath into a magical embroidery of flickering lights and mysterious shadows.
​He is impersonal, yes, because in him all the universal experiences of duration merge. He is not "a" pine, he is the eternal archetype of being solid and present. He is timeless, because his years, which surpass miserable human chronologies, are a continuous and slow flow, where every century is only a slight beat in the gigantic heart of the Earth.
​His cones, sturdy and perfect in their sacred geometry, are his future promises, his small wooden treasures, falling to the ground with a dry and reassuring sound, nourishing the teeming life hidden at his base. It is a miraculous cycle of giving and receiving, a silent and natural altruism that asks for nothing in return.
​His greatest act of happiness is his simple, incessant presence. He is the absence of haste, the triumph of patience. His life is a sublime lesson: be rooted, be strong, absorb the divine light, resist the inevitable storm, and find your perfect happiness in your magnificent solitude.
​When I look at him, I don't just see a tree; I see an ancestral and tranquil soul, wise beyond all measure, smiling at the world with a green and imposing bliss. He is a vegetal lighthouse of hope and resolve, palpable proof that a great and solitary life can be the richest and most joyful of all. He is not just a pine; he is a benevolent emperor of the earth, a resinous philosopher in eternal meditation.
​An extraordinary existence, don't you think? A luminous model of unflappable felicity.
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