We own a little olive grove nestled below in the valley below the Cathedral Mountains. The olive harvest is about to come round again. The white sulphur-crested cockatoos and rosellas have announced this great event in their own way – by pecking the fruit off the tree and leaving a black layer of olives scattered on the ground. The olives are bitter – too bitter for anyone to eat – including the birds.
We gather our troop (friends and family) to harvest our annual olive crop that results in vibrant green cold pressed extra virgin olive oil. Each tree is wise to personal tales of heartache, of love, of longing, of lost dreams, of happiness and acceptance – all stories shares by the olive pickers. It’s the sharing of stories that connects them – and everyone – as they rhythmically strip the tree of its plump fruit and onto the net. Each picker moves as one.
The fog does not deter us from our task. The cold fingers and dewdrops on our faces are part of the job. What’s important is doing the job and working together in sync. Just like a herd or a hive, we are all connected and part of something greater. When we have a purpose, we don’t mind the struggle or the discomfort so much.