Appreciating Olive Trees As a Symbol of Resilience

Some time ago, a fellow Italophile—sharp-eyed and as sun-charmed as I—pointed out something I’d never noticed: in olive groves, the centre of each tree is hollowed, pruned open to the light. A passageway for the sun. A quiet reaching. Like me, they seek the sun.

I adore olive trees. They’re not merely beautiful—they’re theatrical. Sculptural. They seem to whisper with age and attitude, each one a character in a sprawling, ancient drama. Years ago, I centred a 500-year-old olive tree in the stage design for a production of The Crucible. It was gnarled, twisted, almost monstrous—a commanding, spectral presence. A dark witness.

Here in the Fino Valley, olive trees have been part of the landscape—and the soul—since long before any of us arrived. Once, there were eleven frantoi here—small mills where olives were crushed to make oil. Only a few remain now. But the traditions linger, alive in the rhythm of the seasons and in the reverent way locals still speak of “transforming” the olive. Even the Roman poets, Virgil and Ovid—Abruzzo’s native son—wrote of the olivicoltura here, the culture of the olive.

The trees are sacred. And yet, they’re also deeply ordinary. Practical. Like the buffalo to the Plains tribes of North America, not a part is wasted. A neighbour recently handed me a jar of his olives, preserved in brine. I thanked him, told him how much I loved them. A few days later, he turned up at my door with two more jars, shyly triumphant.

When the branches are pruned, they’re left on the earth to return their nutrients. Or burned in slow, smoky offerings to protect the grove from winter frost. The wood itself is dense and close-grained—carved into spoons, bowls, chopping boards, even, once upon a time, pistol grips. The stones, the pits—tossed into fires for heat or for cooking. Everything used. Nothing discarded.

And then—of course—there is the oil. Fresh, luminous, green-gold. That punchy, peppery hit at the back of the throat. Liquid sun. A drizzle of it makes even a crust of bread sing. Pressing season is a kind of ritual here. Whole families gather. Friends. Neighbours. All hands needed to shake the fruit from the branches, to gather it into crates, to haul it to the press. There’s only a brief window—between late September and early November, depending on the mood of the weather. It often overlaps with Ognissanti, All Saints’ Day. The final hard labour before winter. A pause, a feast, a celebration of getting through.

And yes, there’s always food. What’s a harvest without it? One of the traditional dishes is spaghetti alla trappitara—named for the trappa, a part of the old olive press. Just pasta, garlic, olive oil, and a sting of chilli. Uncomplicated. Sublime. They say a person who goes into winter with una buona corta—a good supply of olive oil—is una persona perbene. A person in decent standing. In good shape, in every way that matters.

But beyond its usefulness, the olive tree carries meaning—heavy with it. It’s not just the branches that stretch out; it’s the symbolism. I’m told that the first to prune in spring make the sign of the cross before cutting. A small blessing. A gesture of respect.

We offer olive branches for peace. We’ve done it for millennia. The United Nations flag—drawn up in 1946—bears two of them flanking a map of the world. Christ came down from the Mount of Olives to enter Jerusalem. The word Gethsemane is said to come from the Aramaic for “oil press”—itself descended from a Hebrew root meaning “to shine.” Shine, indeed. Even now, in the low light of late January, the olive trees outside my window shimmer silver in the sun. Their presence reminds me—no matter how bare the season seems—that life persists.

The oil has been used to anoint kings and prophets. It heals—at least, they say so. My grandmother swore by a drop of warm olive oil in the ear for an ache. I believed her, though I never dared try it. The oil makes soap, perfumes, creams. Once, it lit lamps. It still lights kitchens.

But to me, above all, the olive tree is a symbol of resilience. Of grace under pressure. These trees live for centuries—some for a thousand years or more. They thrive in poor soil, on rocky ground. When burned or frozen or split by wind, they regenerate. Start again. Grow.

I pass the same trees every time I run the country road. We nod at each other, the trees and I. Their limbs freeze in mid-gesture—each one holding a shape, a pose, like dancers caught mid-twirl. They make me laugh sometimes, those trees. They urge me on. Remind me to imagine. To finish strong.

I’d like you to meet them—the cast of characters along my winding road. My leafy companions. They’ve been good friends to me. Let them be yours, too.

This article was adapted from my original blogpost published on Casa da Carmine.