The Ashes and the Treasure

🌋 The Ashes and the Treasure

On an island kissed by fire and sea, where the clouds gather atop the great volcano of Fogo like whispering ancestors, there lived a people who knew the heat of the earth and the rhythm of the tides. The sun rose with purpose over black sands and fertile soil, and the winds carried the stories of old from peak to shore.

In this sacred land, beauty was not just seen but felt. It lived in the vibrant fabrics dancing on washing lines, in the cadence of mornas sung at dusk, in the softness of goat's milk, and the shimmer of silver rings traded at the harbor. Fogo's people were known for their laughter, their pride, and their fierce resilience facing drought, eruption, and scarcity with the stubborn hope passed down like seeds.

But there was one story, told softly around fire pits under star-blanketed skies, about a young man named Olívio a tale rarely told in full unless the listener had ears ready for truth.

Olívio was born during a year of abundant harvest. His family, once modest, grew prosperous. His father traded cattle and horses from the highland plateaus, and his mother was known for her rare silks and golden bangles that tinkled like wind chimes. As Olívio grew, so did his hunger not the hunger of belly, but of possession. He wanted not only what his parents had, but more much more. He wanted the glimmering things: the softest leather boots from Lisbon, gold from Dakar, fine horses bred not for labor but for show, and silk dyed with colors not found in nature.

He found ways to make it all his. He learned the art of flattery and favor, of borrowing and rarely returning. His eyes no longer looked at the stars, but only what sparkled in hand. His heart, once filled with reverence for the volcano’s sacred smoke, was now swollen with desire.

One day, an old woman came into the village her face weathered, eyes cloudy, her body wrapped in wool dyed with the ash of the volcano. She had no gold, no cattle, no fine silk. But she carried a small wooden box carved with ancient symbols.

Olívio laughed at her as she passed.

“What treasure could a woman like that offer?” he boasted. “Even the goats would not trade her a sip of water.”

The villagers watched in silence. The old woman turned and spoke, not to Olívio but to the air around him:

“The Creator scatters the shine of things like breadcrumbs, not to feed, but to test. Many follow the sparkle and forget the Source.”

Olívio, annoyed by her presence and unimpressed by her words, dismissed her entirely. But the volcano did not.

That very night, it groaned.

The ground shook.

Fire lit the sky, and lava began its descent.

People fled grabbing only what they could carry. The golden rings, the silks, the silver… they were too heavy to run with. Olívio, in his panic, tried to gather his treasures. He filled bags with coins and fabrics, slung them on his back, and ran.

But the burden slowed him. His feet caught in roots and crumbled stone. The heat grew fierce. And soon, he was face to face with the glowing edge of the lava’s flow. He dropped his wealth, but it was too late.

He woke not in flames, but in silence. Ash was falling like snow. Around him were the ruins of what had been his home. His treasures were buried consumed by the fire or swallowed by the earth. Only the mountain remained.

And beside him, as if untouched by chaos, sat the old woman’s carved box.

Cautiously, he opened it.

Inside was a single seed.

No gold. No silver. Just a seed.

Years passed. Olívio, once adorned in worldly things, now walked barefoot across the island, planting seeds not just in soil, but in hearts. He taught of surrender, of value, of the difference between wealth that decays and treasure that endures. He built a garden near the volcano’s base, where flowers bloomed even in ash. And when he spoke, his voice echoed with the certainty of one who had lost the world but found something better.

This story woven into the heartbeat of Fogo is more than a tale of volcanic fire. It is a parable of what seduces and what saves.

The enjoyment of worldly desires of women, children, gold, silver, horses, cattle, and lush land has indeed been made appealing. That is the design. There is no shame in enjoying what is beautiful, nor in cherishing relationships or success. But beauty, without reverence, becomes vanity. Treasure, without purpose, becomes chains. The Creator, in divine wisdom, allows these things to glimmer before us not as final destinations but as signposts meant to lead us back to Him.

We often fall in love with the glow and forget the sun. We pursue what fills the hand but leaves the soul empty. There is a constant whisper within, asking us not to be fooled. The soul knows the difference between gold that pleases the eyes and peace that pleases the spirit.

There is nothing inherently wrong with possessions. The danger lies in possession possessing you.

When the volcanoes of life erupt when illness strikes, when finances collapse, when relationships shatter, when time runs out what remains?

Not the gold.

Not the cattle.

Not the fine horses.

But what we have planted seeds of service, seeds of truth, seeds of connection with the Eternal.

The Creator is not jealous of our enjoyment, but protective of our hearts. The finest destination is not a palace in this world, but a place of eternal nearness to the One who crafted our longing in the first place. The pleasures of this life are a warm wind, a sip of sweet water but they are not the ocean nor the spring.

Let the story of Olívio be a compass.

Let the volcano’s fire remind you: everything can be taken but what is placed in the heart and soul.

What will you carry when the ground shakes?

The answer to that question is the beginning of wisdom.