I wrote a book many years ago titled “The Bamboo Metaphor.” It was a self-published endeavour with just two editions before it retired to just a few remaining hand-bound copies abandoned on a dusty bookshelf. The main idea of the book centred around an exquisite bamboo species, that in its germination and flourishing story also portends that love and companionship will grow, but only at the appointed time.
Let me quote from “The Bamboo Metaphor” beginning on page 167:
Godfrey’s words came flooding-back, uttered once when they had shared in what is perhaps best described as one of those “deep and meaningful” conversations — discussing the merits of those relationships that could ultimately lead to marriage. It was more of an analogy than a story; in its own right, it was a touching narration imbued with optimism. He said he had heard it from a “wise man”.
True love, Godfrey said, was not like the pumpkin plant that grew with astonishing speed and withered just as quickly, but could be likened to a rare species of Chinese bamboo.
“You must be patient, and when the time is right, love will flourish. Take, for example, a shoot of this rare species of Chinese bamboo and plant it in fertile soil.”
Godfrey had an interesting way of explaining things, deliberating over every phrase and then giving them utterance that superbly lent itself to his narrative.
“Pat the soil well around it. Water it. See that it has sunshine, and the nutrients by composting it, and then wait for it to grow. But remember, you must be patient.”
He had told this story several times before, and each time Yohan heard it had found himself again quietly listening, not wanting to disrupt the methodology he employed in retelling it. The story had taken on a semblance of reality and credibility. With his hands, Godfrey mimed the act of the putting on of compost.
“Wait for a whole year,” he continued, “and you will be disappointed. For the bamboo shoot will still look the same as the day when you planted it. Wait further. In six years’ time you can again revisit your bamboo shoot, just as it was when you planted it. By then, you might even the best of gardeners might be tempted to give up on it, for even after another six years, unlike most plants, it will still sit in the ground, dormant, waiting–for just the right time.”
“Love is like that bamboo shoot,” Godfrey said in a half musing, inane almost philosophical way.
“Still, wait yet another six years. The bamboo shoot is now nineteen years old. You, too, are now nineteen years older, and in all probability those puerile efforts involved in the planting of the bamboo shoot are now all but forgotten. But, the time is finally right!”
Godfrey had a wonderful, charming way of telling a story, embellishing it with his gestures as well as with his inane smile, subtly raising his voice as he led towards the climax.
“With the warm, spring sunshine – for the nineteenth time – suddenly, without prompting, the bamboo shoot moves, bursting into life. The earth parts and a pod of leaves appear overnight. In the next three weeks it sprouts to over twenty feet in height!”
“That’s the way love can be sometimes,” Godfrey restated in a more debonair tone, “the foundation for which can take what appears to be a long, long time to lay, but when the time is right, it will grow like the bamboo shoot, blossom as it were, to full maturity and potential.”
The story, however authentic or not, was enjoyable and quite amazing, yet relevant to any young man’s quest for lasting friendship and companionship.’ Every time Godfrey told it, he modified for whoever the listeners were, embellishing it with details and language that added to its entertainment value. He always maintained that this particular bamboo existed.
Nothing could make the bamboo shoot grow before it was ready, no matter how much rain, sunshine or nutrient. Neither would love grow before it had weathered its share of storms and seasons towards a maturity and a final, long awaited blooming.
