It is March, the time for Winter to begin retreating and for Spring to make her entrance in fiery, flowery blooming. But the land feels desolate, and thunder is still rumbling in the distance. It feels like the world is crumbling, desolate, dying. There is the booming of war in the distance, and the barrenness of apathy hither. A shudder passes through my body like a cleaver passing through meat.
What use is it then, to live? When the world is clearly imploding, when all that is worst is erupting out?
It is March, and I think Spring is late. I was sad to see no mangoes on the trees, no flowers on the shrubs. The tree near my old residence hall had bloomed by now last year. I remember that tree, with its delicate and soft pink flowers, tiny and so gloriously lovely. The tree outside my room is currently supposed to be a flowering tree, but it holds nothing but green and yellow leaves. Almost like a cruel metaphor for humans, meant to be full of life but holding destruction in the palm of our hands.
And yet, I hope.
Why?
It was a sunny morning that day, and as I opened the curtains properly, my eyes fell on the tree in front of my room. There, amidst the green leaves, was a pair of large birds, gloriously golden with black and white tails. They saw me, I know, and I saw them for a while, before they hopped, skipped, and flew away, leaving the rustling leaves behind like they were giggling after a hilarious joke.
The world seemed less cruel in that moment, when they twittered at me and raised their wings. The world seemed softer, warmer, as I admired the white bougainvillea with my friend, amazed at how they seemed to coalesce and leap out of the brush like seafoam, when I watched the sunlight glimmer on the water of the canal. How soft, how tender life is. How could we forget that this was the point of it all?
They say hope springs eternal, and I think it is true. But to be hopeful is to be resilient, to be somewhat patient. Hope is when you plant a seed and wait, trusting, checking, and waiting. Hope is when you cram study for a test, eye bags, crumbs on your shirt, flow state, and all. Hope is when you comfort a friend, their chin on your shoulder, as you tell them that better days are coming. It is mundane, but extraordinary, an oxymoron of the highest order – but it does not matter. Hope is eternal, for what does a human do except hope? How else does a human push through centuries of unforgiving circumstances, through reigns of kings and queens, how else does a human push through centuries of oppression and historical events? We hope for better days, we hope for peace and happiness, small or big, revolutionary or ordinary, for that is what hope does. It is intertwined with the indomitable human spirit, it is in our bones.
There is no point in ignoring the booming thunder in the distance. But there is no point in not living either. As Winter retreats reluctantly, the last throes of the cold thawing, Spring must come. The mangoes must ripen, the flowers must bloom, the birds must twitter, build their nests, and raise their young, so their chirping shall cut through our desolate gloom and remind us that life is lived, not spent. And as we walk under the dappled sunlight of the trees and feel the wind on our face, we will know that life lives on in the tiny moments we barely comprehend, that hope is found in the slivers of birdsong and the notes of a fragrant flower that raises its head to the sunny sky.
It is March, it is time for Spring.