Transformation

A Story by Amanda

Some thoughts from a creative writing class I took during my senior year. It was a free-write session held outdoors in the courtyard.

Two birds fly by. I hear the distant hum of some sort of machinery. The air is crisp despite it being mid-March. Winter is persistent this year. It is determined to stay around, to make its mark, to be remembered, like me. In theory, if it keeps snowing, I won’t have to graduate. The street behind me becomes more congested. I hear the beeping and squealing of trucks and buses, late, and in a hurry to reach their destination. But I also hear the birds. They are one of the few indications that spring is putting up as much of a fight to be noticed as its sister season. The trees are still bare and desolate. Yet, they are beautiful, in a rustic way. I admire the one in front of me. It is small, not taller than the building encompassing this courtyard where I sit, but I can imagine if it were something larger. I can pretend I am as tiny as an insect. Then, this tree becomes a majestic giant, dwarfing everything around it, including the young tree beside it. The two are actually very similar in shape, only one is about a fifth the size of the other. Still there appearance varies in many subtle ways. The little tree has smooth, young bark. The elder shows signs of age and wear, like battle scars, proving its superiority over the seasons and their mutability. Is this what happens after high school? Am I like the sapling, untouched by the world and its harshness, still oblivious to everything? Will I become the elder tree, scarred and winded, but still revered? I guess I’ll find out soon enough. For now, I can only sit patiently and wait in the shadows of others. I’ll enjoy this time outside, taking in the bad and the good; the traits of winter and spring. The latter will prevail, as it always does. Winter, no matter hard it tries, will be forced to loosen its icy grasp on the world. As will I. It is my turn to become the spring. To embrace these new beginnings, no matter how drastic and turbulent these changes are. I will take lessons from nature, as it undergoes these shifts every few months, and it does so elegantly. Right now, sitting beside the elder tree, my lesson is patience. It will take years, but I will eventually stick my roots deep down where I know I belong, and there I will stay, to grow, to flourish, and to hopefully inspire someone in the way I have been so inspired.