January + Smaller Trees

There's usually a subtle change in the air on the last days of January.
A relaxing of the nerves; the imperceptible release of furrowed brows and held breaths from the preceding weeks of anticipation of starting anew. Come February, I'm sure we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming, as if nothing happened.

These days I wake up to foggy condensation spread across all the windows, dripping down and gathering into reflective pools on the sills -- as if someone accidentally spilled a bit of their drink and pretended not to notice. They then proceed to float off into the next room while laughing obnoxiously in conversation. This scenario is mildly irritating since I'm the one who has to wipe down their mess. But even worse is the awareness that I'm the mad one who came up with this scenario in the first place.

The world is unavoidably louder these days. It's true. We probably thought it had reached peak loudness in 2020, but somehow it's managed to crank up, one louder, all the way up to eleven. Weekly trend reports from my work notify that those overwhelmed by this noise have now begun retreating into smaller niche subgroups instead of continuing to deal with the wild interweb world in its entirety. Similarly, my sister's tireless puppy, Somi, scurries back to her cage (a sort of sub-home inside a bigger home) because, from time to time, even she gets overwhelmed by life. I guess it's an innate behavior in all of us.

This gets me wondering, if we've already surpassed the loudness ceiling, if everyone is so ardently putting out content around the clock, what's left to say now?

Last September, I visited Seoraksan Park, one of Korea's most treasured mountain ranges. It's breathtaking. And given the entire stretch of peaks is heavily painted over with towering pine trees, it's hard to believe there's a need for anything more. Like everything that needed to be said has already been said.

And yet, a challenge to my question, the smaller trees beneath the canopy still move steadily about their business, unintimidated by the larger ones high above. Their forms are elegant, refined, novel; adapting; shifting directions, stretching, branching, dancing, spreading out their finite leaves as infinitely as possible, making the most of even the smallest rays of light that shine through. Some rise out of stone crevices, others from under the roots of larger trees. Limitations conjure up the novelty. And when I lean in quietly to observe, each one tells me something I've never heard before. Things the bigger trees won't ever be able to tell me.

The answer comes to me: there are still so many things left to say. They don't always have to be loud. They don't have to rise above the ceiling to be seen or heard. Because we're not actually up against the noise -- we're up against ourselves and the fleeting time we have left here on earth.
So don't mind the noise, and like the little trees, say what you need to say.