Behind the window
Living in the shadow of trees
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Behind the window, on the sill they stand in just-not-enough light. The sun taken from them by the neighbors outside, living in the shadow of trees.
Fresh soil, plant food, regularly watered. A fair deal, maybe.
Placed in a pot, hard and cold. But is outside really any different?
Do they dream of rewilding and overgrowing, climbing walls, swinging around fences, or do they consider the rustle of leaves mundane, disapprove of it?
Do they long for rain, drops sometimes warm, sometimes cold, rhythmic, splashing, overwhelming, or does tap water taste better, fancier, more predictable?
Roots growing endlessly deep, far, and wide, in all directions, boundlessly, undisturbed. Outside there is no hurry; quiet forces push up the asphalt that lies in their way.
The pot remains whole, the roots perform their task, yet they are not truly strong. Not destructive, not stubborn.
Are the indoors jealous of the outdoors? They might recognize each other as of the same kind, remember how it was as a tiny cutting, but whether they still understand each other…
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✶ Thoughts that have occupied my mind forever, finally written down in September 2025.
✦ Image from the precious matters personal collection: now part of this growing archive. A lifetime of small moments, gathered with care: fragments of a soft universe in the making.
✧ Originally written in Dutch by Merel Slootheer. Translated with care and intuition by Blackbird Ditchlord.