I have always been delighted by the idea that we are born from nature, that our cells are pine needles and stardust and embers. These past few months, I have become convinced that we are more like the sturdy oaks and tall lodge pole pines than we could ever imagine, that grandmother willow is more than just an elderly soft-spoken tree from an old children’s movie. Of course being born of the earth, we are not limited to identifying with the spirit of trees, for there are mountains and water and fire and air. However, with youth as my case study, I have yet to find a more suitable description. Youth embody the trees or the trees embody youth, however you prefer to see it. |
They have no say in where they are planted, and yet they grow when they are ready. They upend objects and people, making room for their roots where they wander; each passing season brings vulnerability, beauty, heartache, and resilience. And much like the tree, they live in their own self-constructed world, unconscious of the light and love they bring forth into the universe, a universe they are only beginning to recognize. It is at this age where the world revolves on the axis of their thoughts, the wind dances to their prayers, and they are grounded in only what they know as theirs. What a beautiful and strange thing to believe the sun shines for your branches and your branches only. What a beautiful thing to learn that the same sun warming my face, also warms yours.
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In Guatemala, there’s an unspoken rule that you share what you have. A belief etched so deeply into their culture, that countless myths and superstitions have echoed its sentiments for centuries. Fables and mystical ailments ensure each Guatemalan takes care of his brother and sister to the highest extent he is able. It’s a beautiful cultural norm that is made crystal clear when coffee is poured, the recipient left balancing a treacherously full mug. Cups filled in the most literal and metaphorical sense. Even just thinking about it now, my eyes sting with tears, as my mouth curves into a smile only nostalgia can reproduce. In the States, we’ve cultivated a culture in which it’s almost customary to cut people down to get where we need to go. We see an opponent’s weakness, and we’ve been taught the strategies to use their flaws against them. It’s a byproduct of the competitive nature of the western world. Life isn’t a competition in Guatemala. People are easy going, and they know the struggles of their neighbor. The collectiveness of communities is palpable. It makes me wonder about how we treat our time on this earth. What if life isn’t a competition after all? What if we based our happiness on those around us? If a neighbor is suffering, we too feel their pain and are invested in alleviating it. What if instead of rationing our belongings, we gave strangers what we would afford to give family members? What if we lived in world where the benefit-of-the-doubt reined? What if…what if…what if… We could go on forever asking questions led by those two simple words. Perhaps it’s time we start doing, making changes. Maybe it’s time we start filling each other’s coffee cups to the brim without asking what if.
We’ve grown up infatuated with the idea of playing our cards right, our world spinning on an axis of unmeasurable expectations. Too many of us have lost ourselves to the perfection of our poker faces. I look out the window and see the leaves on the trees give way to fall crisp air, and I remember the people I admire most, the people who aren’t trying to bluff their way through life. I don’t want my hands bound to my sides because of some old insecurity, a card that burned a whole in my pocket long ago. I don’t want the isolation that is born from a hand held too tight, of secrets whispering lies in my ear. I want my resiliency to shake hands with my brokenness, to greet flaws as old friends. I want to take lessons from the way Mother Nature proudly wears her imperfections. Mostly, I want to show my hand and turn in my poker chips. I’m not very good at competitions anyway. I’d much rather be dancing around the table, bringing back the game of 52 pick up.
I wrote this a few days ago, a poem of sorts after a challenging day. We often see the highlights of people’s lives, of their biggest adventures and biggest smiles. We brush aside the in-between, shake off the off days. If we don’t take time to sit with the lows, how do we learn to fully experience the highs? We forget that the hard days add contrast to our best days So here’s to taking time to acknowledge the betwixt + between. Oct 31st |
Alexandra Rosetravel enthusiast. lover of yellowstone, coffee, and a good book. passionately curious. hopeful wanderer. Archives
January 2018
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