A Promise in the Storm

New Year: the time for resolutions and all that "jazz." But New Years is only one day in which you look back on your past year and see through all of your lies, and vow to become a better person. Well, my New Year's wish this year, "Get through 2021 so you can start this process all over again."

The feeling of desired freedom and wanted independence intertwined into my thoughts. The thoughts blaring throughout my head like a siren interjected over the self-determination. Space - always given. Independence - I’ve always wanted. Freedom - In the end, I need it. I can not stand the isolation and the lack of self-initiative. 

My mom was famous in my hometown for helping the less fortunate without wanting recognition - without barely anyone knowing it was her. Moreno, the maiden name follows you around - tailing your every step - until every look has glanced your way. In a way, my mother’s helpful, caring ways were genetic in the public’s eye - the newspapers in Spain lining with, “ The Moreno family, is the daughter just as kindhearted?” With every ounce of famous fame coursing through my family’s name, the more work my mother had. Underneath the so-called “perfect” life hid family tragedies and misfortunes - which led to my mother spending less time with her children. But more than anything, I wanted to prove to the world that I’m not my “model” mother; I am me.

The feeling of being expendable or lacking assurance of yourself is a feeling of devastation. Like how my grandmother said to me when I was 7, “Self-confidence is like a bonsai tree, its fragile branches undergoing ages of growing, but when in the wrong hands, those delicate branches of life won’t last long. In the wrong hands, the tree falters and ends its reign of possibility.” At the age of seven, confidence seems like a long-lasting winter - never-ending even. But as years pass and history is made, soon you’ll be twelve years old and feeling as if self-assurance is a faint whisper in your ear - it’s not always loud, and in your face, it’s when you slow down that you can listen. But what if you can’t slow down?

The stop, Des Moines, Iowa, was a stay on my family’s trip to give. Piles and piles of soon-to-be donated clothes loaded into a car while its engine starts. It’s funny how life seems like a series of stepping stones - one step after another. Unload some clothes, bring to the near laundry mat, wait for the rinse and dry cycle to end, place the clothes in a box, repeat. The time continues, and the shining sun’s pinkish wash soon becomes the dim light of stars underneath a sliver of a crescent moon. The night sky, a light in the darkness of the world, has become a sense of warmness springing up from the cold. The car door shuts, and the surroundings become a world of silent peace and the peculiar evanescent cars speeding by. Scattered powder-puffed clouds and the occasional smoky wisps curl up like genies - my wish, that I would be free of this burden and finally get a chance to show the world the real me. The cold dark depths of slumber pull me in profoundly until my thoughts become as silent as silk. 

The sun, as sharp as an arrow, pierces through the windshield of the blue Toyota as the morning spotlight places upon me. The need and feel for fresh air persuades me to open my tired and restless eyes and continue to work my way to the outside of the car silently. Even in the bright light of the rosy red sun, the feel of a chilly breeze hisses and roars like dragons. The bustling and jostling people crowding the streets of the town proceed to move to the right as I place one foot in front of the other. The streets of Des Moines are busy and immersed with buildings as high as the skyline. The harsh wind carries the sound of cars honking and beeping. As walking, Jack Frost’s cold breath prefaces the power of the wind.

At the time, 2:25 pm, deliciously smelling foods in Iowa and the sound of the various ice cream truck zooming past hung in the air. The sudden sight of red and purple brazed my eyes as the smell of damp soil and a fine falling mist fills the air—people tending to corn, tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants. The sight of community and locality appeals to my senses as I keep my head down and my hands tucked together tightly. I walk closer and become quieter as I lay my hands on the soil of life. I turn to my left and eye the peculiar plant sitting in front of me—a bonsai tree.

The next day, the yearning for insight into the garden brought my body back to the sight of the lonely bonsai tree. I took a deep breath and a quick look around the walled-in garden and noticed an older woman coming up to me and grinning. 

She stated her name was “Katriane” and announced something fascinating while pointing at the lonely bonsai tree,” Plants are the kindling of nature and the kindling for life. Once someone does something wrong, it may feel as the energy is stripped away from the innocent plant. But plants grow from the pain and grow from healing. Don’t lose yourself in a fury of anger and loneliness. A tiny seed can grow into a majestic tree.”

I take a deep breath once more and shut my eyes, the whisper of assurance coming back in my ear. I slowly open my eyes, noticing the water, soil, and the lazy tropical sun providing renewal and life - that a tiny seed can grow into a majestic tree. As I walk out of the garden, my pace of life slows down, and for that moment, the whisper of self-consciousness yells in my ear as I finally hear the cries and pleas for people around me to be noticed.

The blue Toyota’s sight appears as the sky is more bottomless, and the stars are brighter. The curls and wisps of genies don’t return that night, as my wish finally gets heard; a gray and empty world soon becomes a vivid maze of unexpected twists and turns.

My new, New Year's goal, "Life isn't made to be easy; it's made for you to enjoy yourself and have that self-assurance be constantly reminding you of how to be the better you."