Far from the frost-laden boughs of Woodcrest, where winter still clutches the land in its chilled embrace, I find myself standing beneath a tree whose swollen trunk seems ready to birth the very sky. Here, in the beating heart of Cochabamba, Bolivia, the Toborochi tree (Ceiba speciosa) unfolds its blushing blossoms in defiance of the season elsewhere. February marks the start of its bloom, and like a festival of petals, it splashes the streets and plazas with the gentle hues of pink and white.
Known as the “pregnant tree,” the Toborochi stands apart, its bulbous trunk swelling outward as though holding some ancient secret within. This peculiar shape is more than a quirk of nature; it is a story written in wood and whispered through its roots. According to Bolivian legend, the tree once served as a refuge for a beautiful goddess, Araverá, who was pursued by a wicked spirit. Seeking sanctuary, she transformed herself into this very tree, hiding within its swollen trunk until her child was born. And so, to this day, the Toborochi cradles life within its form, its boughs a haven for birds, its nectar a feast for hummingbirds and butterflies that flit between its flowers like tiny, jeweled messengers.
I should be basking in the wonder of it all, embracing the adventure, yet there’s an ache that lingers beneath the thrill. I miss Woodcrest. I miss the crisp salt air curling around the harbor, the sound of boots crunching over the remnants of autumn on the sidewalks, the comforting glow of the flower shop as dusk settles in. I miss the familiar faces, the friendships woven into my days like ivy on old brick walls, the warmth of a town that knows my name. Here, in the highlands of Bolivia, the Toborochi blooms with breathtaking beauty, but its petals cannot replace the ones I once tended with my own hands—the wild sprays of goldenrod at my shop’s counter, the apple blossoms that framed my morning walks.
Back in Massachusetts, the trees still slumber, waiting for the whisper of spring. There, the maples will soon stretch their limbs skyward, and the dogwoods will unfurl their delicate petals in slow anticipation. But here, in the Southern Hemisphere’s embrace, the Toborochi reminds me that the world is always in motion, that somewhere, always, something is blooming.
So, I stand beneath the pregnant tree, pressing my hand against its ancient trunk, feeling the pulse of something greater than myself. A tree that holds stories. A tree that waits for no season but its own. A tree that blooms, here and now, in the warmth of a Cochabamba February. And though my heart pulls toward home, I remind myself: Woodcrest will be waiting. And when I return, the dogwoods will bloom for me, too.