A different kind of quiet falls upon the world when I look out at my backyard. Somewhere between the creeping vines overtaking the old wall and the curious stare of my cat Michito, I rediscover moments I didnāt realize Iād misplaced. He sits there like a poem in fur, utterly still, as though he's listening to something deeper than the street noise or rustling leaves. The sky, often ignored, takes on lavender tones, clouds shaped like afterthoughts, and everything softens. Itās not escape I find, but a pause. Like a comma in the day, it lets me breathe in without thinking of deadlines, repayments, or undone chores.
No one warned me that a banana blossom could feel like hope. Dangling defiantly, heavy with promise, it doesn't ask for attentionāit commands it. The cluster of green fruit above it feels like a secret slowly unfolding. Against the chipped wall and rusting window grates of the neighboring house, the whole plant insists on thriving. Itās messy and wild and graceful in the same breath. The way sunlight filters through banana leaves doesnāt just decorate the yardāit creates a rhythm, a sway, a silent pulse I only notice when I sit still long enough.
Honestly, Michito teaches me more than most humans. He prowls the rooftop like it belongs to him, and maybe it does. His presence is pure observationānever rushed, never distracted. Thereās a certain humility in how he watches birds line up on the wires, as if heās counting blessings or maybe just marveling at the balance. Even the mundane seems sacred under his gaze. Heās not posing for beauty, but somehow he fits into the scene so effortlessly that it becomes beautiful. Sometimes, I think heās the garden's spirit in disguise.
To live among plants is one thing, but to see them is another. Between the leaves and cracks, life pushes through. Not everything is neatly planted; some things just arrive. And maybe thatās the lesson. Not everything must be cultivated intentionallyāsome beauty blooms simply by surviving. These red flowers, for example, I never named them, yet they burn like tiny comets against the green. Even the wall behind them, with its stains and timeworn paint, adds a texture Iāve grown fond of. It doesnāt try to be anything other than itself, and maybe thatās enough.
Under all the noise of modern living, thereās a soft undercurrentāsomething gentle and quietly alive. It doesnāt demand attention like notifications or bills. It doesnāt care about productivity or plans. But if you look closely, in between tasks and troubles, itās there: a kittenās gaze, the way ivy hugs concrete, a cloud shaped like a broken heart. Not profound in the grand, philosophical way, but intimate in the kind that matters when everything feels too much. In these little fusions of the wild and the worn, I find myself again, without needing to search.
All photographs and content used in this post are my own. Therefore, they have been used under my permission and are my property.
