A Matter of Growth
Annique le Roux
Wisdom is matter of perspective. At least, that is what I believe. To those who think that only the old are wise, I say, have you tried changing your point of view, literally? 1
As a young child, I took great advantage of my lack of stature. It often left me with dirty hands and knees and a rather distressed mother, but I remained unperturbed as long as my view of the ground awarded me with the occasional unexpected surprise. Visits to the supermarket saw me crawling under the shelves in the dried beans section; needless to say I took the phrase ‘spilling the beans’ quite literally. Upon returning home, I would nurse my new-found shell-of-life with cotton wool and water, waiting expectedly for the first green shoot.2
As my height increased, slowly as it tended to do, my sapling grew alongside me. I found pleasure in observing the bright green leaves and the twisted patterns on the stem. It was a young plant still, and I had much to learn. I was fascinated by the colours around me – the bright red jungle-gym at school; a schoolmate’s dark Kenyan skin; the summer sky – all so different, yet linked by my view. 3
Wise. I thought I was. I understood this world; its colour and joy. Shades of grey did not yet shadow these ideas. Seasons passed, the bark became thick and coloured in various hues of brown; I entertained new thoughts and young leaves started sprouting. Upon my tree’s branches I hung dried roses, reminders of friendships, reminders that love remains even after the initial beauty fades. 4
But the rain cannot stay away forever. Clouds came to cover my beautiful blue sky. I shivered as the drops began to fall, ordinary tasks became difficult and my thoughts lingered now on darker matters. The water strengthened my tree – new branches grew and the slowly it raised itself above previous heights. Around the trunk, now gnarled as protection against the harsh elements, I tied a bright blue ribbon, a reminder that there is still colour to be found in shadow. We had grown. I could still recall the days of where the deep green leaves drew my attention; I wondered whether I too had become bent in the storm. I ventured forward, however, concluding that perhaps the marks left by the storm were necessary. I readied myself for the sun and what I might see by it. It was hard to hide my shock when I realised that the rain had altered me permanently, colours seemed to have faded, even in the bright light.5
My roots had grown deep. I added to the hanging roses a string of prayer beads - a reminder that though winds may shake the branches, I am never unprotected. I thought again of the storm, the distant thunder had not faded. I listened carefully. Somewhere in the deep rumble, I distinguished a voice of power above any that I could fathom. So great was it, that my tree seemed nothing more than a weed by comparison. I stood in awe of the great Designer of my life. 6
I added to the branches a pocket watch, a reminder that time moves, just as my tree grows.7
I no longer wonder whether I have acquired wisdom, for that is not what I seek. I look upon the dried roses; the bright ribbon; the prayer beads and pocket watch and I see a life that grew into those realisations; a tree that could not originally hold the weight.8
Wisdom is a matter of perspective. Or perhaps, it is a matter of growth.
Annique: I'm a fun loving, proudly South African girl who fell in love with writing at the age of 13. I haven't stopped writing since and have developed a dream for publishing a novel.
