Is there a family tree, as in one singular tree, or is it more like millions of seeds planted down the ages that grow into forests of shade and orchards of fruit; a complex weaving of branches to hang swings from and knot holes to create safe spaces in, a network of roots intertwined and running deeper than we know? The bonds and patterns of family ties are understandable in part yet, largely, mysterious; it would seem that one lone tree could never explain just exactly how we are part of something so much bigger than ourselves.
We have just gathered, once again, for our annual family tennis tournament in the middle of no where here in Africa. A cold wind blew all morning, taking with it all the dust, ash and haze leaving a scene so breathtakingly crisp I wondered if I was imagining things. It was as if every granite rock, stoic aloe, distant blue mountain and mound of grainy, white sand had just been newly born. A kaleidoscope of pinks, oranges and heavenly green Msasas were leading the way out there in the dance of nature, whilst many a tree stood naked against the skyline with only a hint of new buds promising what is to come.
We gather to play tennis, although we must all confess that there is a great deal of feasting around the table and continuous tea drinking, too. I know from experience that if one is on the court serving and they catch wind that the millionaire shortbread has been passed around, it is exceptionally difficult to get the serve in. Luckily, there is always a second serve, and there is always another dish being guarded in the kitchen for those who might not have had.
When we are not playing tennis or eating, we are going for drives and posing for photographs that sometimes didn’t actually get taken. The children are playing with toys, coaxing lion ants out of their holes and riding bikes along dusty roads. We are also catching up, laughing, having important conversations or simply lying down for a moment on a bed that was made specially for us. Those of us with small children feel cared for in significant ways when relatives step in to feed, hold, play games with and watch over the ones who have made us exhausted. Those of us with older children are grateful when wisdom and sound advice are imparted by somebody other than ourselves.
We sink into and towards one another, like all good roots at the heart of all strong trees.
At one point we assemble below the tennis court to remember one of the matriarchs who has recently passed away. A tree gets planted in memory of her and hands, large and small, push the soil in and around it as one might tuck the blankets in and around a loved one whilst they sleep. Suddenly, she is not so ‘gone’ and one of us prays that this tree will grow tall and strong and that it will be a reminder of those gone before us.
Since 1911 we have been playing ‘Family Tennis.’ We follow the age-old rules and sometimes bend or break them. We keep the tradition alive because our elders were onto a beautiful thing when they decided to play for a cup. They set in motion a practice where it is not just about the game, it’s about who we play with.
In an age where people are increasingly isolated, it’s essential that we remember our roots and that we belong. Pitching up for a century and more is about so much more than winning the trophy, it’s about planting seeds and growing trees that will be standing long after we are gone.
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