One afternoon in late spring, I was lying face-up on a disabled park bench, the ones without an arm. I was comfortable, at peace, and at the same time curious, with a vital question in my mind, what is the purpose of my existence. I was under the embrace of a tree, the cherry blossom tree; I call her mother blossom; she is beautiful, this time of the year laden with tiny bell-shaped pink flowers. With this thought of life’s purpose, I would count the blossoms budding from her numerous arms, infinite in number under her care. But then what about the ones that have fallen from her grace by the brute force of gusty winds? They, too, exist, withering with time but still under their mother’s lap, transforming and becoming part of her soul. I assume the one attached to her and those fallen serve the same purpose, forever tethered to their mother.

Now face down, relaxed, on my belly, legs stretched, I notice an army of ants working hard to carry a tiny fallen blossom on their mighty shoulders, their source of sustenance on rainy days. I wonder if that’s how my life has been, constantly toiling and trying to survive. Survival is a primary purpose for everything living. Yet, most of us, at least we humans, feel that we are born to serve a greater purpose, which can substantiate our existence and make us complete. Yet, at that moment, I wonder if all the beautiful creatures of nature feel the same way or if it’s simpler for them.

Engaged in my thoughts, under the shade of mother blossom, I overlooked that the only few human inhabitants in the park had also left; I was all by myself yet not alone. A change was occurring; far off in the sky, I could see the dark rain clouds heading towards the park, trying to obscure the Sun’s warmth, but its shine seemed unaffected by their unwelcomed arrival. I felt something new, a soft tingle, a special joy and excitement, the sweet smell of wet mud, a feeling that we get when something changes for good, like those wet spells of rain between spring and summer, always exciting and memorable. I decided not to leave.

The clouds paraded the whole sky and took their position, leaving enough space for the Sun to peek through. On this day, our Sun seemed a little more persistent and adamant and maybe was not totally in the mood to acknowledge the weather replacement, pushing its light through their delicate fabric. The entire landscape was darkish grey, with a spot of bright yellow light falling on us. I felt a rush inside me and stood upon the bench, resting my back on mother blossom, protected by her majestic form. I could hear loud sounds of thunder from a distance, with a lightning spectacle creaking the dull atmosphere, the clouds unchained. At first, it was large thick drops of rain pouring through mother Blossom’s branches; they felt like wet kisses on my cheeks, arms, and forehead. The brisk winds swirled and whirled, pushing me into a strange dance, bathing under the spotlight of the Sun, the windy drizzle and the warm shower of blossom flowers falling and sticking on my skin. As I danced to the beats of nature, I could hear the music of chirping birds, the hustling of the lovely trees, the whistling of brisk winds, the tunes of fantastic critters, the orchestra of beautiful creatures, and the earth hummed the deep vibrations of the cello. At the same time, the lightning played the guitar of thunderous rock songs. As the rain picked up the pace, the dangling wet branches of the mother tree gave me a tight hug. The rain filtered through her spine, cleansing me, taking away all the sadness and longing. Even though drenched, not even for a single moment did I feel cold, scared or alone. Instead, I could only feel the cosy snuggle, making me lighter with a sense of belonging. All the children of mother blossom were safe and playing under her umbrella. In the final lightning strike in that yellowish monochromatic reel of nature, I saw a familiar face, my mother’s face.

Last year was only about freak storms, shattering my world to rubbles. All season lost their grace; the spring washed off its colour, raging storms stole the warmth of summer, and the rains were splattering rough slaps on my heart, fading away all hope. But it was the harsh winter when I truly withered, pale, lonely, unloved, lifeless, losing all sense of purpose. My mother was transitioning her form, from the mundane physical to something more profound, something more divine, into something as graceful as nature, into the omnipresent one. Like those fallen floral blossoms, I, too, will never be deprived of my mother’s love. Like those toiling ants, I am fighting for my survival, the art learned from my mother. I am also in nature’s spotlight, serving a greater universal purpose. I will be fine where I belong, in the warm embrace of my mother’s lap.

A tribute to my sweetest, dearest, loveliest mommy ” my everything”