ART CHECK: Gospel of a poet at 46

I have been alive for 46 years. The earth has orbited the sun 46 times with me clinging to its back. And in this reflective stillness, I do not think about how far I have come. Have I, really? No. I think about how I have changed.

Like that lone lemon plant, I have learned that life does not always offer fertile ground. Sometimes, we do not get planted in red loam or black cotton soil of well-tended gardens. Sometimes, we find ourselves in the margins, rooted in hard places, pushed aside by the roaring noise of Earth. And yet, like that fragile plant, we grow. We stretch toward the light, even when the odds are against us.

My growth has not been sudden or loud. It has been quiet and steady. Step by step, stage by stage, phase by phase. Not by might. Not by brilliance. But by patience. By the slow unfolding of self-awareness and grace. That, in itself, is a kind of strength.

I have come to see that we are all teachers, even those among us who do not stand before blackboards. We teach by how we carry ourselves. We teach by what we endure and how we choose to endure it. Every hardship we survive is a chapter in someone else’s guidebook. Every kindness we offer is a small light in someone else’s dark hour. Every mistake we make, and learn from, is a lesson made real. These are the teachings written in the ink of experience, shaped by sense and feeling, by thought and the holy guesswork of living.

One lesson stands out above the rest: the value of yielding. Just like that lemon plant that bends with the wind rather than snapping beneath it, I, too, have learned to yield. To listen more and argue less. To adapt rather than resist for the sake of pride. To soften where I used to harden. There is strength in flexibility. Wisdom in knowing when to let go.

I have come to admire rainwater. There is a deep truth in how it flows, how it adapts to every shape and finds a way around every obstacle. In Chinese philosophy, water is revered for this very reason. It does not force its way. It does not shout. But it carves canyons and shapes continents. There is a lesson there for us human beings.

At 46, I see more clearly what matters and what doesn’t. I’ve lost some things and gained others. I’ve let go of the need to impress, the hunger for applause and the fear of slowing down. In their place, I’ve found quietness, gratitude and a deeper joy in simply being present.

I have learned that the best things in life are not complex. Community is not complex. Simplicity is not complex. Empathy is not complex. These are the things that hold us together. These are the things that make life livable. No, beautiful.

Love, shared simply.
Laughter, heard freely.
Life stories, told without shame.
Meals, eaten slowly, with others.

I have come to believe deeply in community. In the simple, everyday gestures that say: “You are not alone.” A neighbour who recalls your name. A friend who checks in. A student who gains from a teacher’s spontaneous anecdote. These are the treasures we should count.

And empathy, yeah, empathy, is the bridge we must build every day. Everyone is carrying something. Everyone is wounded somewhere. We must stop judging people by the chapter we walked in on. We must make room for each other’s shadows. The world is too cruel already. We must not add to it.

So, I say this to you, wherever you are planted, grow. Even when the soil is dry. Even when no one notices. Even when your roots crack the concrete. Grow anyway. Be like the lemon plant. Quiet. Resilient. Alive.

Live simply.
Love generously.
Forgive quickly.
Listen deeply.
Laugh loudly.

Remember where you come from. The labour-cries of our mothers in the maternity ward. The hands that taught us our names to write. Voices that sang us to sleep when we were still small and afraid. Let your life honour their sacrifice.

Yes let us remain soft. Not soft as in weak but soft as in kind. Soft as water. Soft as in strong enough to bend, gentle enough to heal.

This is my 46th gospel.
This is my epiphany.

May we continue to grow where we are planted.
May our roots, though hidden, stay intertwined. Quiet and strong beneath the surface of our ordinary lives.
May we rise, as Phoenix do, each passing year, with a little more grace, a little more laughter, and a lot more love.

Aluta continua.