Today I was walking my dog through the park and I found myself looking at the trees. At first glance, winter leaves them bare, branches stripped of their leaves, as if everything were paused. But if you look closely, truly closely, there is already a tiny emergence of a leaf. A bud so small it could easily go unnoticed, and yet it is there, quietly announcing spring.
I love this metaphor because it reminds me that even when everything appears still, life is never truly motionless. There is an inner movement, a growth that does not always reveal itself through dramatic gestures. We often believe we are not moving forward because we do not see a large green leaf fully unfolded, but the real change is forming in that almost invisible beginning.
The inner winter is fertile too
In Taoism, there is an understanding that everything unfolds in harmony with nature, that nothing needs to be forced. Winter does not compete with spring. It does not try to bloom ahead of time. It withdraws, deepens, conserves energy. And in that apparent emptiness, everything reorganizes for the next cycle.
We are not disconnected from that rhythm. Even though we tend to measure progress through visible results, there are stages that are purely internal. Stages of introspection, of silence, even of exhaustion. And yet, within them, something essential is taking place.
The winter season is deep, silent, introspective. It moves what is invisible so that what is visible can later appear. Perhaps our quietest phases are not setbacks, but preparation.
We are not separate from nature
If we look around with honesty, everything that sustains us comes from the planet. Every piece of food, every material, every tool that makes our lives easier. The Earth has provided not only what we need to survive, but also comfort, beauty, and time. Time to think, to create, to feel.
Our relationship with nature is not decorative, it is inseparable. We form a symbiosis with it and with all living things. We are part of the same process that moves sap through the trees. Even if we forget it, even if we live surrounded by concrete, we still breathe air, eat fruit, drink water. We are still nature expressing itself in another form.
Perhaps that is why, when I pause to observe a tiny bud, something inside me becomes quiet. As if it recognizes an ancient language.
The ritual of the small
I usually have dinner with my children, but yesterday I was truly tired and felt the need to do something different. I decided to eat alone in the kitchen. I dimmed the lights, left the atmosphere soft, and chose silence. I did not want distractions. I just wanted to be present.
I ate a plate of spaghetti, nothing extraordinary on the surface. And yet it tasted so good. Not because of the recipe, but because of the ritual I had created around that moment. Eating without rushing, chewing with attention, feeling the flavors. Turning something ordinary into an act of presence.
I share this because we often think we need more. Something more expensive, more exclusive, more spectacular. Big plans, big experiences. And we forget that something small, if filled with presence, can become an immense gift. A cup of coffee in silence. A simple dinner eaten slowly. A walk where you notice a nearly invisible bud.
I make myself look at these small things because, even if they seem insignificant, they are deeply valuable. We could have been designed to eat something neutral, without flavor or aroma. And yet food has textures, colors, nuances. Each fruit with its shape, its scent, its sweetness or acidity. We do it every day, and still it remains extraordinary.
The beauty of the ordinary
The same happens with our words. Written or spoken, they are our thoughts taking form and traveling toward someone else. It is something we do constantly, yet it never stops being special. That an idea can cross space and resonate within another person is still, if we truly look at it, a small everyday miracle.