From Seedling to Sanctuary: A Journey of Loss, Growth, and the Whispers of Nature

A hawthorn tree was given to the female neighbor in the front row of the community. She later sold the house and the buyer opened a kindergarten.
The hawthorn trees are always there.

I got it from my hometown more than 300 kilometers away. Hawthorn is a very hardy plant. But the hawthorn I planted in my yard was killed by a flower called St. Alban. The territory is too small, and everything is trying to grow and fight for sunlight, and the roots are fighting for life under the extremely limited land. It was really a cruel battle that could not be seen or heard.

The hawthorn was defeated miserably, lost its life, and received its head – its head was not a crown, but a root in the soil. The plants plunged into the soil and opened their eyes in the darkness.

Saint Alban has yellow flowers. Large flowers, clustered, fragrant, with many branches as thick as forearms. It is learning to pretend to be a tree, and it is no longer the elegant look of flowers and plants. It is already higher than one floor, and it is still jumping up. I was writing at my desk on the second floor. Occasionally I glanced out the window and it was eye level with me.

In the courtyard downstairs, you can’t see its flowers. Plants are all dominant at the top, with flowers blooming at the top. There is no way to pick flowers. Several times, I took tree shears and a ladder and walked around the tree three times, looking at it and sighing. There are thorns everywhere and nothing can be done. If I fall in, I will look good. Ah, that would really taste like being shot through by arrows.

I always feel that the swaying flowers at the top are arrogant, mocking, and showing off. It is high and high, as if it thinks it is the winner of life.
I’m shocked when I think about it, this flower is ten years old.

Then the hawthorn tree in the kindergarten is also ten years old. It is so tall and lush, with clusters of red fruits swaying around it. It has the majestic look of youth.

I couldn’t help but stepped forward and hugged the tree. When my neighbor planted it, it was only one meter long, about the thickness of my middle finger. I remember taking a shovel and teaching my neighbors to plant it under the warm sunshine in spring, how deep to dig the tree hole, how to put sheep manure as base fertilizer, cover it with soil, how to tamp down the soil at the roots, and how to water it – the first water. It must be watered thoroughly, which is called root water.

Can it recognize me? Can it sense kinship with me?

I think it can detect my joy and uncontrollable intimacy, but humans have not yet mastered the way to communicate with plants. We cannot understand its expressions or words. People also know very little about dogs, which are closely related to humans. A dog’s sense of smell is 30 times that of a human, so how much can it smell?
Plants’ sense of smell, sight, emotions, wishes…

Occasionally, in a trance, I seem to have approached a secret passage that communicates with all things. My soul is dangling on the branches, like a bird, like a branch, like a bud about to emerge after breaking through the hard bark.

In such a simple and old place, so close to the soil and nature, sometimes I wonder how I can be so lucky. Life is so short that many people have no chance to see and feel it. Secondly, people’s minds are always in confusion and cannot settle down. Life is like a chaotic world, and people are fugitives in a hurry.

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