Written: 13th Apr 2009 | Last Updated: 13th May 2009
If you can attribute such things to a tree, the Norfolk Island pine has dignity, a sense of calm and a very distinctive presence. Its clean lines and great, straight height give it a neat, even appearance, the symmetry perhaps hinting that if it were a man he would be morally upright, physically strong and spiritually true. Almost always topped by a natural star, a young potted specimen makes a perfect recyclable Christmas tree, with open arms and soft fingerlings welcoming ribbons and strings, tinsel and generations of beloved yuletide things.
The Norfolk pine also has tremendous meaning for me personally, as my parents made Norfolk Island, in the South Pacific, their home for the final decades of their lives, and both are buried in the island’s moody, ozone-y cemetery adjacent to the sea. The rich-green headland where they lived rises to the east behind the earliest convict graves, and for anyone who knew my mum & dad well this view forms an emotional link back to their once vibrant, intellectual, creative enclave above Kingston’s ruins.
From their farmhouse flanked by stands of pines you would often see rainbows over the ocean, and sometimes whales spouting as they cut through the strait between Phillip and Nepean islands. My mother even once saw a funnelling waterspout tie stormy sky to building sea; she was naturally observant that way. My father was particularly fond of a pair of kingfishers that rested each day on the front fence that separated house and front lawn from the paddocks that fell to the cliffs; male and female would work hard all day, then would settle like a sweet old couple on the brown rails and watch the day melt away. When my father was left a widower, the kingfishers still came, and I believe the three of them enjoyed a special understanding.
Where I live now, in Mosman Park, Western Australia, we have a lovely avenue of Norfolk pines leading up to our local Town Council chambers. Each tree was planted a lifetime ago in memory of servicemen who perished in the First World War. I walk past these trees almost every day, and they have a profound effect on me for the reasons I have mentioned above.
Looking up, with afternoon sunlight breaking through their craggy branches, I marvel at the trees themselves, at what they stand for in this particular Memorial Park, and also how they transport my thoughts; for just a moment they connect me to my parents, to their spirits, and to the fascinating life they built on their distant isle; and I accept their passing, their diminishing into dust, and understand, and admire, the way of the world.