Monsoon mist hangs low. The air is thick with moisture covering the ground in a damp, quiet stillness. A tendril cusps a teardrop from the mourning sky. A tender moment caught between earth and sky. Suspended in gentleness, it is a world onto itself, a tiny trembling universe. It is a fleeting moment soon to pass but in that second, the tendril and teardrop are united in stillness.
In its reach, there is no hesitation no apprehension. Just the simple will to grow, to reach for the light, to find its place above the earth. It is part of something bigger, yet it moves as if it alone decides its path. The tendril trust in the emptiness, knowing it will lead somewhere, somehow. It moves toward it, trusting that it will find what it needs. It does not fear what it cannot see. It only moves forward, always forward with a kind of quiet faith that the world will give it what it needs.
The green limb stretches out, searching. It moves with purpose even though it is delicate and tender. It knows what it wants. Even if it doesn’t know why. It reaches for anything it can grasp, winding tight around whatever it finds, pulling itself up bit by bit. It is relentless, but not reckless. It does not idle or wait. The tendril climbs because it is driven by something deep and ancient. There is strength in its softness, a resilience that cannot be seen, only felt. It finds its way because it must. To stay still is to wither.
The tendril rises higher and laterally, strengthened by the struggle, marked by the quiet persistence that knows no need for praise or recognition. There is no fuss, no applause. Only the silent fulfilment of a purpose realised. When at last it finds the light it sought, it does not pause. There is no rest. It continues onward, ever searching for the next hold, the next ascent, as if driven by some unseen force. For this is the essence of life—a succession of climbs, of groping into the unknown, of forging a path where none exists. The tendril understands this truth in its silent, unwavering way.
It teaches us that it is not the reaching itself, but the endless climbing, the refusal to cease, that defines our journey.
Once the tendril grasps hold, it anchors itself deep, securing its tenuous claim in the emptiness. From this grip, the plant begins its quiet transformation.
Energy shifts.
Buds appear, small at first.
Unopened.
Wait.
Black ants move over them, their paths unnoticed but deliberate. They crawl about, magnatised by nectaries and sticky sugars. They may inadvertently pollinate if they visit the right places, leaving traces of life in their wake.
The buds begin to swell, responding to their presence. Rain falls, light and steady. The ants persist in their task, a small but crucial part of the cycle of life.
Slowly the buds bulge, unclasp, nurtured by the tendril until at last they unfold into bright yellow blossoms. Each flower is a culmination, a promise, a gift. A manifestation of the tendril’s relentless pursuit.
It is simple. But it is an expression of everything. Of all that is.
Here, on the fragile cusp of nature, we glimpse the interconnectedness of all things, the invisible threads that bind the vast and the minute in a dance of perpetual discovery.
