The Grand Banyan
The banyan tree in Florida hangs over the first tee at my golf course. One moment swaying and bending in the wind, the next as still as a statue, with vines that you can swing on and leaves that are greener than the greenest grass. If this tree could talk, I’m sure it could ramble on for years about what it’s seen, heard, smelled, and felt. If the banyan tree could talk, I’m sure this is what he’d say: “Feeling kids’ hands is a feeling I’ll never forget, unwashed (even though I’m sure their parents told them to wash them) hands holding onto my vines, imagining that they are Tarzan. Seeing countless golfers tee off, some hooking the ball into the woods, some hitting the ball dead straight into the middle of the fairway, and even some who roll the ball two feet (those are the people who bang their clubs on the ground, saying, ‘I need a new club! This one’s terrible!’). Smelling that new-sod smell from the sod the green keepers just put in. Hearing the twang of people’s drivers hitting the ball and the golf carts driving away.”

The banyan tree is like an old man, wise, cautious, and always under control. Its leaves provide a barrier, a barrier that lets only the most wonderful thoughts in. The bark is like crumbling paper, telling the world how old it really is. A million branches, two trillion leaves, three billion vines, welcoming the world, saying and thinking to every human being . . .

Come. Come and see the banyan tree.

Let your imagination run wild, your thoughts a jumble in your head, let the soothing noise of the leaves rustling above you put you into a trance. Let every feeling besides happiness go away, leaving you to dream.