I took this photo in March 2024 after one of my guided hikes at Eaton Canyon. There is something that feels almost like a conversation between friends in nature. I realize now that something quite profound was happening in the moment I captured it.
The olive tree, with its long human history, carries stories of cultivation and intention. It does not belong here in the same way the sycamore does. It is not native to San Gabriel Valley and after the 1993 fire some helpful volunteer planted it; before a naturalist came in with concern and started a deliberate effort to ensure the native plants were cared for and or planted. The sycamore, is one of those natives. This one, we believe, was long ago planted and has stayed rooted in place. This, before the modern day destruction, It has grown up with this soil, this light, this air. And yet, in this photo , neither tree dominates. Neither rejects the other - they simply… adjust. Respecting the space they share.
I love the lack of symmetry to these two friends. The trunks twist around each other in a way that suggests negotiation rather than design—like two lives intersecting and choosing coexistence over competition. The olive doesn’t try to become a sycamore. The sycamore doesn’t push the olive away. They remain fully themselves, but in proximity, they change each other’s shape.
And then came the fire. Stupid Eaton Canyon indifferent fire.
The fire, that I have been able to see doesn’t care about origin, intention, or harmony. It has erased distinctions - native and non-native, planted and wild - reducing everything to the same fragile state. What survived, what didn’t, what might return… all of that becomes uncertain.
I no longer feel the immense sadness. I see her get greener and fuller by the day. But she is still not accessible. I long to not just to know if they survived. I desperately want to see them again. I accept they may be gone but I want to see what grows next.
The second we knew our house survived it was no longer simply what was lost. It’s has been about what has choosen to return. The debris removal has shown that when the structure is gone it is hard to remember what was there before. The sycamore may resprout from deep, ancient reserves beneath the bark. The olive, resilient in its own way, may send up new growth from what looked like ruin. Or perhaps only one returns. Or neither—but something else, unexpected, takes their place.
Nature doesn’t rebuild as it was. It composes something new from memory and possibility. Maybe it's to FLOURISH. The word I picked this year that I am struggling to identify with. Is 2026 is it FLOW, POWER
MOVEMENT, CURIOSITY, EXPLORE.. ... All words that I'm seeking as a replacement in April after owning FLOURISH since January. Maybe, just maybe, that’s the deeper meaning I've been craving:
That coexistence is not fragile in the way we often think—it doesn’t depend on perfect conditions. It requires my mind to silent, stop the overthinking and accept that even after disruption, even after something as final as fire, there is still a pull toward life, toward reaching, toward sharing space again.
My desire to see if they survived? and it is unlikely they did . Is this see CURIOSITY? Or is it MOVEMENT and/or FLOW shaped into a question?
Either way - whether they survived or did not - the story isn’t over. And neither is mine. Yes dad, a tree is nice.
