When I feel hopeless about humans…
when I lose meaning…
when everything feels like dust

I go to a big, old tree.

I press my forehead to its bark,
a silent prayer in the quiet dark.
I try to hug it, but I can’t
my arms fall short. The trunk stands stark.

I close my eyes.

Hot tears fall down my face as I whisper:
“Please… give me a reason.
Any reason to believe in life.”

Then I see it

The core turns to light,
a bright current rising from root to height,
from underground to endless sky
a silent flame that does not die.

And I realize:

I can’t even wrap my arms around this trunk.
I cannot wrap my arms around life.

No matter how much we try,
the essence of life is ancient
resilient. Defiant. Strong.

No one can control it.
No one can kill it.

Despite our capacity to destroy,
life finds a way.
Through the cracks in cement,
through the walls we invent
it grows. It stays.

Life is stronger than death’s cold hand,
stronger than greed that scars the land,
stronger than walls and wars we wage,
stronger than all our fear and rage.

It is.
It persists.

And this—this is the relief:

No one can control the essence of life.

Life is not ours to win.
It’s bigger than us, older than us.
It humbles us. Outlasts us.

And somehow,
in that defeat
there’s comfort.