Just the other day, I had a reunion. Not with a person, but with a durian tree I planted almost a decade ago.
When I first pressed that young sapling into the fertile soil of Sumatra, I did so with hope. Not just hope that the tree would survive the monsoon seasons, the dry spells, and the hungry insects—but hope that it would thrive in a way that connects people, forests, and the wildlife that depend on both. I had planted it at Ibu Erna's Eco-farm, located in the buffer zone outside of Gunung Leuser National Park, not far from where orangutans, those wise, contemplative beings who also have a fondness for durian when they find it ripe and ready.
For years, I didn’t know if the tree had made it. Life moves fast, and my conservation work pulled me to other regions, other causes, other jungles. I recall stopping in a few years after planting the sapling noting that she had grown but still too young to bear fruit. But the memory of planting that tree—digging the soil, gingerly placing her into the earth and tenderly packing the supporting soil, sweating through my shirt, smiling like a new father—never left me.
And then today, I returned.
She was there. Not just alive, but tall and strong. Her wide canopy offered shelter from the sun, and her branches—oh, her branches—cradled the heavy, spiny treasures I know so well. Durian fruit, ripe and ready, hanging like golden teardrops of gratitude.
After a cry of initial excitement, I approached her slowly, reverently. To touch the bark was to touch a timeline of my own life. A decade ago, I had more stamina, perhaps less wisdom. That tree and I—we had grown in parallel, each in our own way.
And I felt something unexpected. Parental pride.
Yes, I know she’s "just" a tree. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I saw in her the fulfillment of a promise. The labor of my hands and heart, bearing fruit in the literal sense. And I thought of my orangutan daughter, Princess and the other orphaned orangutans I’ve helped return to the forest, the students I’ve mentored, the forests I’ve defended leaf by leaf.
This tree was family. She was part of my story.
As I stood proudly beneath her, I laughed at how quickly the years fell away. The thought of the creamy, rich taste of the durian took me back to roadside stalls in Sumatra, jungle camps in Kalimantan, fruit vendors in Bali and Java and midnight feasts with friends and strangers drawn together by this bizarre and glorious delicacy.
I remembered how orangutans carefully choose which durians to eat—waiting for them to ripen, opening them with deliberate strength. There’s a reverence in the way they eat, a mindfulness I’ve always admired. In some ways, my long journey with durian has taught me the same: to wait, to savor, to share.
Today, I did all three.
I savored the fruit from Ibu Erna’s farm with friends and curious visitors alike—even tasting those that squirrels had worked hard to chew through the spiny husks. As we ate, I shared the story of the tree—born from my hands and nurtured by committed ecofarmers.
We all need moments like this. Moments when we step outside the rush of responsibility and reconnect with what’s quietly grown beneath the surface of our lives. For me, it was a durian tree. For you, it might be something else.
But I promise you this: the fruits of love, patience, and connection are always worth the wait.
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