In the garden of Scalabrini House 634 there is an arbutus tree. It is a tall, tapering tree with flaky bark. “Arbutus trees!” I exclaimed the first, seeing its fruit, which to me evokes childhood vacations in Sardinia where, however, the arbutus plants had a lower, bushier appearance. At least, that’s how it was in my memories. Everything in Sardinia was a bit lower and bushy: even my relatives…

The arbutus fruits change from a beautiful green to a vibrant orange to ripen into a bright, almost unnatural red. Their shape is spherical and the surface is grainy, covered with tubercles that make it look almost like a hard peel, but they are unsuspectedly soft and sweet to the palate.

Since I have lived here, in the right season, every morning I observe a ritual: to go out into the garden and eat, picking them directly from the tree, those two or three fruits that have ripened at night on the lowest branches, that is, those that I can reach by standing on the tip of my toes. Most ripen on higher branches to which I cannot reach and watch helplessly as they turn an even darker red and then fall. And I remain observing them, on the ground with a somewhat childish regret.

“I have to get a ladder,” I tell myself every time, “so I can get to the higher ones as well and fill a big basket.” Certainly it is my well-known laziness that hinders me, in this operation. But not only that. I like to think that this rite gives me a chance to make a different choice than usual. Seize the opportunity not to seize, so to speak. Serenely accepting my limitation, my finiteness. After all, I think, that’s what makes those few, small fruits I get to tiptoe around special: the very fact that they are the few I am allowed to reach.

And if I find it hard to make this little gift of the tree be enough, if I find it hard to find “the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” I will find “the courage to change the things I can.”

Then I will know that the coffee shop is next door and. “Cappuccino with cocoa and croissant, please!”

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