Here in Ventura, once stood a pair of trees on a hill. They had stood there since the long, long ago, where the legendary farmers -- men of McGraths, the Donlons, the Borchards, and the Ortegas -- had placed them high above the city of San Buenaventura. And there they stood and grew across the long decades, keeping silent vigil above a prosperous town, and inspiring us with simple beauty.
The Two Trees were not ordinary trees, but blue gum eucalptus, brought and placed here from lands far to the West. They were something of an emblem for local businesses, with representations proudly emblazoned in logos and signs. Through my youth, they were an everpresent feature on the skyline, inspiring dreams and fantasies. For in one direction stood the earthy hills, and in the other lay the sea and the enchanted isles.
Perhaps they were descendants of the Two Trees of Valinor, Laurelin and Telperion, who shed their light on all of Arda, from Valinor across the western sea to Middle-Earth and beyond. For just like their ancestors, in recent years, they started to sicken.
In the Years of the Trees, the Trees of Valinor lit the whole world, until Morgoth convinced Ungoliant to inject her poison into them. As the two trees died, the light of the world slowly faded away, until the Valar took the last living fruit of Laurelin and the last living flower of Telperion and used them to create the Moon and Sun. But they, too, were corrupted by Ungoliant's poison -- the last remaining pure light of the trees were bound in the Silmarilli of Fëanor, taken and held in Morgoth's terrible crown for a thousand years.
The Two Trees of Ventura too faltered. First the eastern tree sickened, and grew weak. Then the great fires came and scorched the very leaves off the branches and extinguished the life out of our sacred trees. A month later, a windstorm came and snapped the eastern tree's trunk in twain, so what remains of the glory of the Two Trees is a tall stump and a dead, wintry outline of the formerly great branches.
Where once they stood for our prosperity and resilience, now the Two Trees are a tall reminder of what we have lost -- irreplaceable lives, homes of friends sacrificed to the flames, the days we lived in thick smoke, families rent apart as people move away to find a place to live.
As our city is once again wreathed in smoke, mere months after the previous fire, it grows more painful once again. The inescapable fact is that in this new era, the light of the world is no longer pure; it has been corrupted by the flames that once again consume homes and lives. Everything has an orangish tint and is covered in a layer of dust and soot -- all of the city's colors have dimmed.
Men's hearts too, have dimmed. Our President has said that we don't deserve aid in fighting the fires. People argue in earnest that separating children from their parents is good and just. Still, we feed the fires ever more, with cars and plants and factories. The Devil Winds come more and more often as we burn the fuel to light the lamps to blot out the stars.
I can still remember the pure light and star-filled skies, but I can no longer see it here. With the passing of our Two Trees, a little more of the light of faith is gone from the world. Yet I can see the smoky light of the flame racing down the hills towards us once again. And Melkor, in the Void beyond the Walls of the World, is laughing.
The Two Trees were not ordinary trees, but blue gum eucalptus, brought and placed here from lands far to the West. They were something of an emblem for local businesses, with representations proudly emblazoned in logos and signs. Through my youth, they were an everpresent feature on the skyline, inspiring dreams and fantasies. For in one direction stood the earthy hills, and in the other lay the sea and the enchanted isles.
Perhaps they were descendants of the Two Trees of Valinor, Laurelin and Telperion, who shed their light on all of Arda, from Valinor across the western sea to Middle-Earth and beyond. For just like their ancestors, in recent years, they started to sicken.
In the Years of the Trees, the Trees of Valinor lit the whole world, until Morgoth convinced Ungoliant to inject her poison into them. As the two trees died, the light of the world slowly faded away, until the Valar took the last living fruit of Laurelin and the last living flower of Telperion and used them to create the Moon and Sun. But they, too, were corrupted by Ungoliant's poison -- the last remaining pure light of the trees were bound in the Silmarilli of Fëanor, taken and held in Morgoth's terrible crown for a thousand years.
The Two Trees of Ventura too faltered. First the eastern tree sickened, and grew weak. Then the great fires came and scorched the very leaves off the branches and extinguished the life out of our sacred trees. A month later, a windstorm came and snapped the eastern tree's trunk in twain, so what remains of the glory of the Two Trees is a tall stump and a dead, wintry outline of the formerly great branches.
Where once they stood for our prosperity and resilience, now the Two Trees are a tall reminder of what we have lost -- irreplaceable lives, homes of friends sacrificed to the flames, the days we lived in thick smoke, families rent apart as people move away to find a place to live.
As our city is once again wreathed in smoke, mere months after the previous fire, it grows more painful once again. The inescapable fact is that in this new era, the light of the world is no longer pure; it has been corrupted by the flames that once again consume homes and lives. Everything has an orangish tint and is covered in a layer of dust and soot -- all of the city's colors have dimmed.
Men's hearts too, have dimmed. Our President has said that we don't deserve aid in fighting the fires. People argue in earnest that separating children from their parents is good and just. Still, we feed the fires ever more, with cars and plants and factories. The Devil Winds come more and more often as we burn the fuel to light the lamps to blot out the stars.
I can still remember the pure light and star-filled skies, but I can no longer see it here. With the passing of our Two Trees, a little more of the light of faith is gone from the world. Yet I can see the smoky light of the flame racing down the hills towards us once again. And Melkor, in the Void beyond the Walls of the World, is laughing.
"Kitto daijoubu da yo." - Sakura Kinomoto