sol.ace_r

In the island’s cold yet vivid breath,
I walked quietly every morning.

It was no longer unfamiliar or frightening.
More than familiar—there was a deep, settling comfort woven into the journey.

What guided me was only one place.
A place touched by my hands,
filled with my sweat and breath,
and the unwavering will of hope I had planted there.

As one day passed and another followed,
the path leading there no longer felt harsh.
The slope that once left me breathless,
the bends that had been troublesome,
all softened with time.

Along that path now lay
a quiet peace and a faint thrill
I could never have imagined before.

The feel of the earth beneath my feet,
the touch of small and large stones—
they no longer stopped me.
They were simply the grain of the land,
a part of the path I walked.

Even the island wind had changed.
It was no longer cold or sharp.
It brushed past my cheeks as if whispering,
softly smoothing my skin,
and at times lifting my hair
like a gentle hand encouraging me.

Faint waves in the distance,
sounds from between rocks and branches,
perhaps the stir of tiny lives moving beneath the soil—

none of these sounds were foreign or frightening anymore.

They felt like tender, peaceful companions
filling my day.

The island was alive,
and within its living voice,
I had my place.

I was no longer an outsider.
I had become part of its quiet breath,
breathing naturally
together with the island.

The modest space I first began shaping
could no longer be called “small.”
It had grown—visibly, and at times
to a miraculous degree.
It had widened beyond comparison,
grown greener,
and filled with a thriving abundance of life.

Where once only faint signs of growth appeared,
strong shoots now rose boldly from the earth.
Their stems were firm and upright,
and leaves glistened under the sunlight
in a deeper, richer green than ever before.

At the tip of some stems,
unexpected colors blossomed—
small, lovely buds swelling with promise.
Elsewhere, unfamiliar little fruits
began forming one by one.

On land once barren and dry,
here stood an unbelievable harvest.

It felt as if all the time and effort I had poured in
met the island’s tenacious vitality
and quietly performed a miracle.

Every morning, I reached that place
and watched their growth
with a swelling heart.

What had changed overnight?
Which new leaf had unfolded?
Where had another flower bloomed?

Each tiny change
felt like discovering beauty that filled the entire world—
a deep joy that nourished something essential within me.

I touched the soil gently,
loosening it so delicate roots
could spread wider, deeper
into the island’s earth.

From somewhere on the island,
I fetched clear water
in my hands or in small bowls
made from leaves,
pouring it with care,
with affection,
so that not a single stem would dry.

Whatever impeded their growth
I removed gently yet firmly.

So that this little garden
could remain filled
only with strong, healthy life—
alive in its entirety.

Those hours of tending
gave me profound peace,
a steady stillness,
and the essential fullness
that comes simply from being alive.

The warm, soft touch of healthy soil at my fingertips,
the faint but unmistakable sound
of growing life drinking in the water,
the peaceful sway of leaves in the wind,
and the fierce, vibrant energy
radiating from every living being—

all of these sensations
quieted the turbulent waves within me
and anchored me wholly
in this moment, in this place.

It was no longer
an act of duty or labor.

It was like releasing a deep breath,
purifying my spirit,
lingering solely in the present,
connecting quietly, deeply, harmoniously
with myself
and with this island—
a living being of its own.

Every day, I realized anew:
that in caring for small lives,
I was caring for and healing myself.
Their radiant growth
was my own inner growth.

Wounded parts buried deep within me
were gradually healing,
growing stronger, gentler,
and—unexpectedly—
beautiful.

The boundaries of my little garden
expanded steadily, without stopping.
Beyond the stone wall I once built,
to the edge of the forest,
and further still
toward the shore brushed by the sea.

I softened the rough earth,
clearing sharp stones one by one,
creating new ground.

In other parts of the island,
amid rocks and harsh terrain,
I found resilient plants
that had survived against all odds.

I uprooted them with care
and planted them
as new members of my garden.

They became varied shapes of hope,
taking root in my space.

As time accumulated—
each plant I planted,
each life I tended—
the space grew richer,
filled increasingly
with my touch and my stories.

My time, my sweat,
my endured pain and healing,
my silent affection
soaked into the earth.

A living world I was creating,
a breathing space
holding both my past and my future—
a place where my spirit gladly rested.

The garden was no longer mine alone.

Drawn by the greenery and vitality
I had nurtured with care,
small animals and insects
began to visit one by one.

Colorful butterflies danced around the flowers,
bees hummed as they gathered sweet nectar,
and unfamiliar little creatures
moved through the grass
adding life to the garden.

On some days,
birds flew in
and perched on the small seat
I had crafted from fallen wood,
singing quiet, beautiful songs.

Their quiet companionship
softened the loneliness
that had stayed with me for so long.

I spoke to them,
and they answered—
in their eyes and gestures—
as if sharing stories of the island,
stories of the living world.

I was lonely no longer.
Every life on this island
had become my family,
my friends.

Even as I lost myself in the rhythm of tending the garden,
a quiet, undeniable pull
toward another part of the island
stirred within me—
the deepest place in the forest.

Once, it had been filled
with overwhelming fear
and tangled shadows within me.
Now it felt like a truth I needed to face,
a memory that needed sorting.

I did not hesitate.

With cautious yet steady resolve,
I stepped once more
into the depths of the forest.

The distorted shapes
that once froze me in terror
still stood where they had been.

They remained silent,
unchanged—
but this time, I was different.

Seeing them brought not sharp fear,
but a deep, dull ache.

In their twisted forms
I saw the weight of time,
the silent pain
and unspoken wounds
they bore.

Like old scars
never fully healed,
dark and hardened.

They were no longer eerie beings
threatening me.

I realized
they were manifestations
of deep, hidden wounds within me—
pain I needed to face,
embrace,
and slowly sort through.

This forest
was no longer a place of fear.

It was a landscape of emotions,
shaped by hurt,
waiting for me to meet it
and heal.

My inner world
was speaking through
the forest’s scenery.

Breathing slowly,
I walked deeper still.

And there,
in a place where time seemed frozen,
I confronted a space
where life had vanished completely.

Trees reduced to bare branches,
their bark peeled away,
their insides rotten and crumbling—
structures cracked and nameless,
anchored in the dim shadows like roots.

They were no longer alive.
They had died long ago,
remaining only as “what was left.”

Suddenly,
they felt like
my past failures,
relationships that never healed,
wounds I wanted to forget,
dreams I had buried and turned away from.

They stood in silence,
but the silence
was heavy—
and painfully familiar.

The island’s old wound
seemed to testify
to my own deep sorrow.

I approached it—
without hesitation.

I knelt beside the lifeless shape
and slowly traced its cold, brittle surface
with the palm of my hand.

A hard, rough texture.
The traces of deep fractures
pressed against my fingertips.

A surface carved and broken
by time and pain,
by silence and neglect.

I drew in a long, deep breath.
And steadied my heart.

All the courage and resolve
I had gathered throughout this journey—
the small sprouts of hope,
the faint pulse of life—
I pulled them all together
and held them firmly inside me.

I made a decision.

To clear this place,
to clean away these dead forms.

It was not simply
the removal of abandoned structures.

It was an act of severing—
harsh, painful,
and undeniable—
in which I faced, acknowledged,
and uprooted the parts of myself
that had died,
the old wounds that could no longer grow,
the pains that had never been understood.

I had no sharp tools.
Only my body.
My hands,
my feet,
and my will.

With bare hands,
bare feet,
and my whole being,
I confronted the lifeless trees.

Pushing,
dragging,
uprooting,
breaking.

The roots,
embedded in the earth like stone,
did not budge.

They felt like
the weight of silent despair
that had lain submerged
within me for so long.

Dry branches, sharp as blades,
scratched my skin,
tore my clothes.
My palms split open
on the rough bark and splinters;
blisters burst.
Muscles trembled
as if torn,
breath came in ragged gasps,
and sweat poured like rain.

But I did not stop.

Every time I pulled out a dead tree,
it was not only
physical strain.

It was like seizing
a deep scar within me—
a memory I had ignored—
and wrenching it
out of my life
by the root.

When it came free,
the ground shook,
and so did my inner world.

The pain
was almost unbearable—
deep, sharp,
piercing.

And yet,
I could breathe.

The heavy weight
that had sunk inside me
began to peel away,
little by little.
For the first time,
I felt that breathing
was possible again.

It was the process
of touching, sorting,
and letting go
of all the nameless sorrow
that had pressed upon my life,
and the pain of the time
I had endured.

Through this, I decided
that I would no longer
give myself to the shapes of my pain,
nor be crushed
by their weight.

A severance from the past.
It hurt—
but it was powerful,
and liberating.

Where the lifeless trees
had been cut away,
a quiet, deep emptiness remained.

Sunlight seeped down
onto the cleared ground,
and the hidden grain of the earth
appeared faintly,
but unmistakably.

Facing that space for the first time,
I saw that it was barren and rough,
yet strangely
filled with a gentle warmth.

In the place where
the shadow of death had lifted,
I sensed—
however softly—
that something could begin.

The feeling was small, cautious,
but like the first light blooming
after a long darkness,
it stopped me in my tracks.

I slowly placed my hand
on that earth.

The touch of sand and soil,
stones and broken roots
spread across my palm.

Within that sensation,
I recalled—one by one—
my old wounds,
the feelings I had avoided,
past failures,
regrets that would not fade,
truths that had never reached anyone,
and the words that had circled
only inside my heart.

They were no longer hidden.

Like the exposed roots
of dead trees under the light,
the shapes of those pains
were clear,
and I could face them
without denial.

The moment I acknowledged them,
they stopped being burdens
that weighed me down
and became instead
the patterns that recorded
the time I had lived through.

This place was not merely emptied—
it was a space meant
to be filled again.

A place where I could plant,
tend,
and cultivate something new.

I realized then
that this was not just
cleaning or clearing.

It was the ordering of my inner world,
the preparation to live again,
the true work
of laying a foundation.

The time I had endured,
and the changes that had taken root within it,
the new strength that had formed—
all of it
had brought me here.

I was no longer someone
struggling to gather
the pieces of my shattered self.

I was becoming someone
who could build a world
centered around who I am.

That conviction
grew slowly within me.

The remnants of the cleared structures
I carried to the edge of the island—
a place I would never return to—
and left them there
quietly.

They still had weight,
but that weight
no longer pressed upon me.

Instead,
it had become part
of the ground I now stood on.

I gave them
a final glance.

Goodbye.
Thank you.
I release you now.

Then I walked back
to the cleared space.

It was empty,
yet within it
lay a sleeping expanse
of infinite possibility.

What should I plant?
What light should I fill it with?

As I layered imagination upon imagination,
my heartbeat quickened
to match it.

I began to envision
not only a small garden
but the entire forest,
the entire island—
transforming
into a living space
of my own.

A place where
my story,
my emotions,
my grain of being
could breathe.

My garden
was no longer only on the island.

It lived
deep within me too.

One tree at a time,
one space at a time,
carefully, quietly.

Beyond healing, beyond growth—
I was preparing
for new life.

The journey I was walking
had become
the firm foundation
of a life that held
all those moments within it.