There’s a fig tree outside my grandmother’s house that’s older than her. She says its roots know secrets. Today, I sit under it, writing notes between birdsong and afternoon wind.
This journal is a meditation—on silence, on the inheritance of land, and on what it means to remember. Each fallen fig is a metaphor, really: sweetness wrapped in impermanence.
Sometimes the work is loud. Sometimes, like today, it is to be still and listen.