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The shaft of sunlight that punctured the low slung gray clouds seemed purposeful in its aim. Like a spotlight it focused on the lone Gingko tree just across the pond from me. The tree glowed golden in the fading autumnal light.

I love this graceful tree, planted for me by my grandfather so many years ago. It is a tradition here in China for grandfathers to plant a Gingko for their grandsons, understanding that the slowly maturing tree will only bear fruit about the time their grandchild marries.

The clouds close in on the last rays of the setting sun and I climb the path to our home. My name is Ma Wei and I have come home from the University in Xian to visit my family here in the countryside, and of course, my tree. The Gingko is a symbol of long life and I have discovered during my studies, that it is more than a symbol. My Gingko is only 20 years old, but many Gingkos live as long as 100 years and a few have even witnessed the march of history for over 1000 years. I am sure my tree will be such a venerable one as well.

My grandmother collects the leaves about this time of year. She says that fall is when the leaves are the most potent. She dries them and adds them to her collection of herbs, each one labeled with its name and uses. She writes in small, neat Chinese characters that she thinks Gingko is good for blood circulation and improved memory. She adds a little note underneath that says “as per grandmother and great grandmother”.

Grandmother tells me of the ancient Gingko tree that still stands in her hometown. It stands in the temple garden, planted before her grandmother’s mother was born, before memory. The tree is 125 feet tall. In Xian, that would be the height of a 12-story building. The ancient tree lends a wondrous shade in the heat of summer. In autumn its leaves fall like drops of gold onto the temple roof, a last glint of color before the drab winter takes hold.

It is said Gingkos were planted next to temples and imperial buildings because they were thought to protect against fire. Perhaps. I would have thought their beauty and longevity were reason enough.

If you look closely at the light green, fan-shaped leaves, you’ll see the veins radiating from the stem out to the broad end of the 3″ leaf. When I was little the needle like veins made me think that a pine tree had wished so hard to be a leaf tree dressed in glorious seasonal color, that its wish came true. Since then I’ve learned that the Gingko is in a class all by itself. Even though it has leaves like a deciduous tree (a tree that loses its leaves) and has bare seeds like a conifer (an evergreen like a pine), it is neither. Gingkos have their very own category called Gyngkophyta. Members of this group of trees thrived all over the world in prehistoric times. Gingko leaf fossils have been found from 270 million years ago! That’s even before the dinosaurs of the Jurassic period! The leaves on my Gingko are no different than those of the fossils! My tree is a living fossil!

This living fossil is a tenacious tree, highly resistant to insects, bacteria, viruses and even pollution! A Gingko tree growing next to a temple less than a mile from Hiroshima, survived the Word War II atomic blast without any deformities even though the temple was destroyed! Another Gingko tree in Syukkeien Garden inside Hiroshima City also survived. Therefore in Japan the Gingko is regarded as the “bearer of hope.” In Russia, a Gingko was the only plant to survive the nuclear disaster at Chernobyl.

The Gingko has survived from a time beyond imagining, through the age of dinosaurs and the ravages of nuclear destruction to the present day. It graces city streets and temple gardens with equal beauty and speaks of continuity through the eons. My Gingko links me to my grandparents and to those before them. I’d like to think that my Gingko, when it is no longer mine but simply a testament to the ages, will somehow link me to those who follow as well.