When I moved into my new house, I brought along the two things that feel closest to who I am — my books, and the plants I gently “borrowed” from my mother for my new room. There was an initial excitement, of course. A sense of responsibility I was actually eager to take on.
Every day with a plant is its own small story. Observing it, watering it, shifting it towards the sun, changing the water, checking for tiny insects, placing it out in the rain — these rituals become part of your own rhythm. Yet, despite this daily attention, you rarely witness any dramatic change. Days, sometimes weeks, pass with no visible movement.
And then suddenly, there it is — a new bud, a fresh leaf, a small branch extending itself quietly into the world. A reminder that even on the days when we see nothing, the plant is working faithfully within its own silence. Photosynthesis doesn’t announce itself. Growth doesn’t ask for our approval. Just because we cannot observe the process does not mean it is absent.
Isn’t that how our lives move too?
We don’t transform in noticeable ways every day. Often, it feels like nothing is shifting at all. But beneath the surface, something is forming — slowly, steadily, without spectacle.
Plants teach us this: growth is rarely loud, but it is always happening.
And perhaps that is why we must keep observing them — to remember how patient life can be with us, and how patient we must learn to be with ourselves.