
A hidden tree came into view as I worked my way down the canyon.
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
Something big and white and cloudy was lurking in the steep canyon below our house. I stood up from my computer and peered out the window for a better look.
It was flowering tree, growing wild.
I’d never noticed that tree before. You can barely see it from our house. It’s surrounded on all sides by more predictable trees: A rangy bay laurel and its offspring. A couple of young and aggressive live oaks. An aging Monterey pine. A gigantic cypress. Also, an anonymous shrub with red berries that I have never much liked.
But here it is February, early spring in Oakland, California. And a fruit tree – an apple? a plum? – is blossoming right below my back yard.

It was growing wild, unpruned and shaded by oaks and pines.
I went outdoors to get a better look, only to lose sight of the tree entirely. It’s probably a beautiful thing, I thought. But what a waste. All that splendor and no one to pay homage to it.
I resolved to make my way down the hill later in the week and appreciate that tree up close. Take a picture. Record the poignant, fleeting lives of those white blossoms.
And so, last Friday I grabbed our camera, put on my hiking boots and a pair of old, expendable pants, and made the steep downhill journey through mud, blackberry, sourgrass, and a rotting tree stump.

Reared in Brooklyn in an Italian Catholic family, Esposito spent ten years in a monastery. Since the Seventies, he has devoted himself to the study of Islam and to promoting healthier relations between Muslims and Christians. At Georgetown University, he teaches religion and international affairs as well as Islamic studies.







