A Pale Shade of Green
On my morning walks to Northwest, I’ve watched the great magnolia tree go from barren branches to full bloom. The beautiful flowers hold a bright magenta pigment in their centers that soften to a delicate blushing pink petals. Each morning, I track the tree’s progress. How much have the flowers bloomed?
On Monday, I saw the flowers, brilliant and beautiful, thriving in the generous rays of the morning sun. On Wednesday, they stayed in full bloom, every branch freckled with petals and buds. On Friday, I saw the petals falling in slow motion, finally lying down on the concrete beside the grass, individual white petals crinkling into brown. On Monday, the grass was clean and the branches were barren once again.
It’s interesting how the flowers bloom at different times, one after another. The magnolia tree bloomed, and then the Japanese cherry. The oaks followed. All the while, the nearby sycamore stayed quiet.
***
Recently, a friend told me that in college, we experience a month’s worth of emotions in one week.
I picture us as magnolias, budding, blooming, and turning brown over a few long days. We pull ourselves through a cycle of emotions over and over again, but we often pretend to always be in full bloom. We cover ourselves with colors that don’t quite match how we feel when we are alone.
I often feel as if I’m lost in a garden of blossoms, surrounded by bright stories of success and high standards. I am a barren branch reaching out in a field of fully bloomed magnolias.
At times I overwhelm myself with comparison or anxiety, or a mix of the two. My mind is a jumble of thoughts, worries, and ruminations, and I feel lost in the place where I’m meant to know what I’m doing.
In these moments, I console myself with fond childhood memories.
***
I first visited the sister blossoms of the magnolia tree when I was nine or 10.
My grandparents would come for several months on end to visit us, and in those summer months we would take daily walks to the nearby park. Holding hands, we’d begin our trek and know we’d arrived when our shoes touched the pinkish-red path and the solid concrete turned to grains of gravel crunching under the soles of our feet.
We arrived long after the pink crabapple blossoms had hardened into their apple forms. In fact, most lay bruised on the ground. The tiny fallen fruits became more abundant as my grandpa and I approached the crabapple tree’s trunk. One day, scared but curious, I grabbed one of the remaining fresh apples from a branch and took a bite.
The taste of the apple was overwhelmingly sour, but a little sweet. I puckered my lips. The apple had not ripened and remained a pale shade of green. My bite revealed the yellow interior.
Those days, my grandma would also venture out into the open grass, picking flowers one-by-one until she had a handful of petite, white clovers. She wove the flowers together and wrapped them delicately around my wrist. Tying the final knot, she gifted me a clover bracelet.
That day, the grass lay empty of a few clovers, and the tree missed a single crabapple.
Those white clovers have since died and the crabapples have decomposed into dirt, but what lives on are my memories. I still remember the care with which the clovers were tied to my wrist and the wince of the sour apple on my walks as I held my grandpa’s hand.
***
The barren branches that once harbored magnolia blossoms remind me of the gaps left by my clover bracelet and my taste of a crabapple. While reminiscing about these happy moments, I realized that their absence is not simply sorrowful. Their emptiness is remembering and expectant — –a celebration of what’s already been and anticipation of what’s to come. Perhaps when I look closer, I’ll find some evidence of past life or upcoming growth.
“The days are long but the years are short,” my father used to say back home. Now in college, I not only understand this, I firmly believe it. Perhaps the day stretches when I see the fallen leaves among pure droplets of morning dew.
My personal journey is not defined by bright blossoms and blooms. It’s defined in the moments that I embrace my barrenness and reveal my imperfections. The barrenness brings with it the potential to grow, and I’m thankful for those who’ve helped me realize this. I’m proud that we’re growing together.
New growth is apparent in many ways. It’s in the excitement after sharing new experiences. It’s in the stomach cramps from laughing at funny mistakes. It’s in the surprising recognition of an inside joke. It’s in the lingering warmth from the gifts we give and the hours we spend together.
The mornings after a late night rain yield puddles on uneven concrete. They accidentally teach me a lesson. As I dodge the still waters on tip-toe and map my leaps over them, I’m forced to survey my surroundings. I’ve been distracted before by the bright-red berries and fluorescent green leaves. But in my survey, I notice the tiny new buds.