Liverpool opinions
Trees - When blossom appears to wither on the branch
By John Williams
Why is it that people who do not, or cannot procreate are somehow viewed as incomplete or unfulfilled? Parents undergo pain when their offsprings, for one reason or another cannot give them grandchildren. But is procreation the only role of all human beings?
When we discuss procreation we often talk in metaphors concerning fruit. For example, the prayer, 'Hail Mary', contains the line, 'fruit of thy womb Jesus'.
The way we talk it is as if the fruit is the sole goal of the system that produces it. However, the fact is, trees exist not simply to produce fruit for humans to eat, but to produce more trees.
Similarly, human beings exist not simply to produce more human beings, but also to reproduce the societies that produce and foster human beings. Fruit is not produced by every bough, branch or twig any more than every woman bears a child.
When human beings are born they are the only creatures on earth that cannot fend for themselves until they are very advanced in years.
While we are unable to walk, talk, think for or feed ourselves, society, in the form of our parents, relatives, friends, teachers and physicians ensures that we survive.
Without such societal intervention we would not survive until our second day of life. Similarly, fruit cannot survive without the protection of the tree that bore it. Right up to the point that the apple matures it needs the tree for nutrition and shelter.
Just as the tree affords food and shelter to its fruit, so parents, teachers, doctors and nurses provide the secure environments that allow human beings to reach maturity and independence.
Many of these people are unable to procreate and for many different reasons, congenital defects, celibacy or choice, yet without their contribution to the reproduction and maintenance of human society we would be a desperately impoverished species.
For believers, Jesus, the fruit of Mary's womb, sired no children, but left many of ours a priceless legacy, love.
This is perhaps the most beautiful poem ever written on the subject of a woman's inability to bear children,
Winter Trees
The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing.
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history.
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietas?/
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.
Sylvia Plath