A constantly re-growing olive, planted by Athena herself.
If you climb to the temple of Erechtheion, at the Acropolis, Athens, you will see a small olive tree. It is cradled by the walls, tucked into a recess, ground stabilized under it with stacked stones. A small tree, it is unassuming; it could be any olive tree in the city. It bears fruit in the summer amid its silvery leaves.
The olive arrived at the temple at least 2500 years ago. The legend goes, Poseidon and Athena were vying for control of the young city as its patron god. They put forth a contest of gifts; Poseidon struck the earth with his trident, causing a spring of salt water to well forth. Athena, knowing that the water was briny and could not be drunk, kneeled and planted a seed in the earth, from which in minutes grew an olive tree. Athena was henceforth given the city, known now as Athens.
Whether or not the olive was actually planted by Athena (or by more mortal hands), it was certainly destroyed by humans. In the sacking of Athens in 480 BCE, the tree was set on fire and burned to a stump. It was reported that the next day, however, this stump had sprouted a green shoot– taken to symbolize the coming return of the city. This shoot was nurtured, and as the city was rebuilt so also were olive pits planted throughout, forming the Moria- sacred trees considered property of the state.
The tree has been destroyed again, countless times, in invasions, fires, rebellions, and wars. Yet always a branch is saved and replanted and the tree is regrown. Most recently it was badly damaged during World War II– the present tree was replanted in 1952, from a cutting taken by the American School of Archaeology. It is impossible to know if this is truly the same tree as has been growing in place for all those centuries. But olives are a willing clonal propagator, and will regrow from their own cuttings again and again.
Generally, the age of stone and of trees is measured by different rulers– a tree may be old at 400 years, while a stone might attain age at 400 million. But here, where the carved columns and the stacked pavers show their weathering so intensely, where they crack and round and fall to pieces, it is the tree that looks young and the building that appears ancient– the powers that once erected those walls long stilled. In this way, Athena's gift to the city feels all the more long-sighted. It is forever new, fruiting in the summer.
