-“It began with a whisper in the soft, brown beddings — a sound no human could hear, but the earth knew. Something ancient had awakened beneath the cracks of our town.”
Somewhere across the close-knit neighborhood with tree-lined streets and patchwork-engraved houses, a leaf’s first breath sprouted along the cracks in the wet pavement.
Musky, damp, and earthy, was just one of the few ways to describe this feeling. Scenic views of clouded skies and honking mobiles flooded the mornings; the soft pitter-patter of angel tears forming puddles somehow perceptible from a mile away. It was always like this in the first mornings after the rain — calm and solitary — and I certainly preferred it that way. My first wings swayed with the cold wind, and my roots perked up at the feeling. Nobody really goes out at this time, spare for the early-birds in their mid-thirties with their mussed hair and black Nike Windrunners who jog like it’s breathing.
From a distance, I can barely make out the figures of humans as a veil of mist blocks my perfect vision of their window sill. My eyes direct towards the blue house with white, chipped picket fences and hear children simultaneously screaming with joy, their eyes crinkled and lips cracked into a huge grin to the announcement of class suspensions due to weather disturbance. Not long after, the echoes of tiny feet running to the hallways are heard as they find themselves in the comfort and familiarity of their family home with a bowl of goodies in hand, and sounds of their favorite show start to play in the background. The sight felt nostalgic, like I felt my roots tip at how adorable the sight was. Then my gaze averted to the plain white cooped house, where a girl, seemingly in her teens, stares into the void outside her window, seemingly in a hazed state. Not a single sound utters from her mouth, yet her eyes hold a sort of fondness and melancholy in them. The echoes of laughter and freshly made stew emanating from the wall separating the two ringing in her ears and nostrils. Shoulders slumped, her dark, long hair falling to the cold marble floors, akin to the stems from my wings trying to hold up from the weight of the rain. (1) Feelings are the soul’s compass. All sentient life forms seem to brew a different circumstance, their emotions woven through complexities that safeguard the heart and flesh. My roots reach like longing fingers through the earth, leaves turn in silent hope, and in the hush of being, I realize I also live by feeling, not by thought — responding with grace to the breath and bruise of the world.
A new day spills softly over the horizon, and the first rays of the golden, warm sun peeks through my pigment, a stark contrast to the stormy feel of yesterday. I can feel myself growing little by little each day. Growth was surely taking its time, and it felt like I was going to be a sprout forever, folding to the silent commands of the rain. But now I emerge into something tender, my leaves itching towards the light, unfurling by silent determination. As I go into my daily stretch, I saw him— a soul weathered like stone, seated beneath the breathless hush of a neighborhood that no longer noticed. His eyes, lanterns dimmed by years, held stories folded like slept-on newspapers. His frail arm clutches onto the grubby, torn fabric falling off his shoulders as the heat curled around him gently. He sat motionless, eyes fixed on a prominent campaign poster lined across the street. Immaculate figures with eyes sharpened by ambition, a suit so crisp it seemed ironed by intention itself. His slogan— A Brighter Tomorrow— arched above his head in large, bold, patriotic font. The man in ragged clothing’s gaze was not of wonder, but a hollow weighing as if trying to measure the distance between that perfect grin and his empty pockets. (2) Purpose is the looming anchor that grounds us in reality. Life’s wide tapestry longs for a sense of direction or means of living that drives fulfillment and resilience. Like stems pushed beneath concrete, I felt the press of something small. A will not to rise to power, but simply to rise— to find warmth, to be seen.
'And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it’s better than drinkin’ alone'
- Piano Man by Billy Joel
I stir and shiver beneath a frost-kissed veil, my leaves curled against the biting chill of winter, veins pulsing faintly with stubborn life. I feel myself wither and seek the scorch of the bright sun in April, yet I become another spectator to laughter wrapped in scarves and breaths turned to mist. People suddenly become art, with their cheeks and noses flushed, footsteps crunching on the midday snow. How strange. I wonder. How is it that while nature trembles on the edge of silence, the world still dances in fleeting grace? “Mama, I love winter so much. I wonder if it’s coldness would also freeze the time.” says a little girl dressed from head to toe in warmers, tugging at her mom with profound curiosity. As the snowflakes fell from the sky, the moment seemed to turn into a freeze frame. (3) Time, as they would call it — is the passage to change. It shapes the arc of existence through moments of growth, decay, and renewal. Many see it as a harsh reminder of reality, that time waits for no one. No matter how much someone wants to stay in a certain moment, it will only remain ephemeral, and everyone will eventually progress along with it. And despite these fleeting moments of weakness in the coldness of December, I stand tall to the best of my abilities, the determination to grow into the zenith feeling so close to my reach.
Yet in winter, I almost made peace with my ending. The cold threaded through my spine, each gust a quiet thief stealing what little will I had left. For a brief moment, I saw nature pulling through a storm against its own will. Leaves hanging by a thread — their once vibrant, earthy hues drained into pale, crisp browns like loam, before it worshipped the ground and stopped at people’s feet. I had a dream where everything stopped, save for the world around me shifting from murals blasting with wild, radiant shades, to being washed out by the creeping gray of concrete slabs and gigantic buildings that spat back shadows instead of sunlight. I felt alienated, untethered from the world. But time wished me well and kissed me by the cheek before lending me to spring. The flowers danced along happily to the melodic tunes reverberating from the local band’s concert, and the birds sang their hearts out to the beauty of lives interacting wholly again. Children play across the streets of their home and the friendly neighborhood dogs start wagging their tails in excitement while the roads bustled with vendors displaying their works, and the teens and elderly go hand-in-hand. The cacophony was deafening, yet it exuded joy and a sense of stability and connection within humanity and nature. (4) Connection is what they mean by:
‘No man is an island.’
-John Donne
Every individual or breathing thing is one piece of the greater whole that is what makes earth complete. Relationships and interdependence with one another fuels meaning and inspiration, which is responsible for every moment and circumstance brought upon in life. Whether it ignites with a touch, a whisper, a liability or a strong emotion, connection is what constantly grounds us to reality and keeps us from teetering to insanity.
Now, I stand firmly — not as the sapling trembling at winter’s edge, or bowing to the harsh rain’s commands, but as a tree forged by time’s steady hand and quiet seer to the world that painted my will. I am now a cathedral of branches, shadowing the streets that forgot how to dream, every leaf woven into memory of every story I’ve seen. I no longer live to grow — I witness and remember. And in the pulse of my roots, buried deep within the surface, the world breathes in color again— not painted, but born.
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