The feather is so light; its weight is almost insignificant. There is a mysterious beauty about its pale color and its tiny hair and frail curve. It has no roots; air blows it around to wherever it pleases.
It flies all over; it has no home, how can it when it barely ever settles. I am not sure if it’s a slave to the wind or if it’s free of all ties, but technically, it’s not alive to enjoy the journey, and I wonder how it would feel –if it were alive- about never belonging to one place.
The flower is a piece of art with its beauty. It has colors so intriguingly matching its green crown and stem and you can see how each flower belongs to its tree. It is tied down alright, but it moves so gracefully in an eternal dance as the gentle wind carries its fragrance all over the place. There’s always a piece of it flying around making you aware of its existence.
With its beauty and its fragile ties, it can easily be pulled out from its roots by strong wind or a hand that wants to possess that beauty. Its life ends so abruptly, the sadder part is that its death seems to be so insignificant; even to the people who see it, it would be a truth to be accepted and then taken for granted! Shame!
There is some sort of majesty about a tree; it’s a green kingdom in its very own way, it has branches, leaves, little flowers and sometimes even more! Most importantly, it has roots; roots running so deep under the ground tying it too strongly that it would take a hurricane to pose a threat to its existence.
The tree is giving to all its parts, it nourishes every little leaf there is; moreover, it gives people shades in hot summer days that would make them enjoy an occasional gentle breeze. But if a hurricane ever pulls that tree up its root, it is a disaster. Like the fall down of an empire, the tree falls, taking down everything on it, and perhaps even destroying its surroundings. The death/murder of a tree cannot pass unnoticed and cannot be forgiven; you can’t just shake something so strong and not deal with its wrath!
The rock is not much of a charmer; in fact, no one ever stops to look twice at one! It could have a smooth surface or one that’s too rough. It could have a precious core or it could be just another rock inside and out; either way, people hardly care. The rock has no roots, it’s tied down to nothing; it's only held down by its own weight yet it is very stable. The rock is a small mountain; it would take an enormous change of its surroundings to move it, like tides in the bottom of the sea, or the grains of sand around it burying it or brushing away from it!
The rock lives for no one; it doesn’t even have a life for all I know. The rock is affected by almost nothing; it takes years and years to change anything about it, and the change is always gradual and almost invisible to the average by-passer. The rock lives a long rhetorical life simple because it has none.
I think we’re made of all four, I think having them in the right amounts is what makes us survive trauma and stand up on our feet again. But I also think that the “right amounts” are relative; there are no right amount simply because each one of us is made differently despite being made of the same things.
I don’t know which parts of me are feather, flower, tree or a rock, but I surely related to each.