Seasons of the Pear Tree: A Reflection on Time and Change

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There are times when everything slows down, and the pace of life becomes more deliberate. In these moments, the world feels simpler, steadier, and more meaningful.

Age Six: Sticky Hands, Open Skies

When I was six years old, the days felt endless, slow and steady. Time was a distant idea, something I barely noticed. In the yard, an old pear tree stood, its roots deep and firm. Every year, its branches sagged with heavy fruit, a quiet constant as the seasons came and went.

Picking pears was simple. My small hands reached for what I could, biting into the soft flesh. Juice ran down my wrist, sticking to my skin. I didn’t mind. The cores, half-eaten, were left on the ground, forgotten, or buried in the grass.

Afterward, I sat beneath the tree, the cool earth pressing against my legs. I watched the clouds drift lazily across the sky, always shifting. One moment, they were a whale; the next, a train. My thoughts followed their lead, light and free. The pear tree did not seem remarkable to me back then. It was just there—part of a world I had yet to understand.

Age Twenty-Two: The Pace Quickens

The ease of childhood gave way to the hurried, unrelenting pace of young adulthood. By twenty-two, life seemed to accelerate, leaving me to muddle through. The world grew louder, driven by a pace I couldn’t quite keep up with. Everything moved with purpose, though I often stumbled along, trying to make sense of it.

The pear tree stood where it always had, but it had faded into the background. It was a presence I noticed without truly seeing it. Picking the fruit had become second nature, almost mindless. Juice trickled down my wrist, though I hardly noticed. I wiped it away, my thoughts already on what came next.

Sitting beneath the tree no longer felt like a break from the world. I didn’t tilt my head back to watch the sky like I used to. My eyes stayed down, focused on the path ahead. The future wasn’t something to sit back and admire—it was something I had to chase.

Age Forty-Nine: What Remains

At 49, I no longer try to control life’s pace. The pear tree is still there, its branches thicker, its roots deeper. I still eat the fruit when it’s in season, but I take my time with it now. The juice from the pear runs down my wrist, and I let it.

Sitting under the tree doesn’t feel like searching anymore. The shade is enough. The clouds still drift by. Their shapes matter less now than the fact that they are there.

The questions that once pressed at 22—what I should do, who I should be—have softened over time. The questions don’t demand answers anymore. They just need space to exist.

The Thread That Ties It Together

At six, the world felt a little scattered—a sticky pear, a passing cloud. By twenty-two, I tried to make sense of it, searching for meaning. At forty-nine, I have learned to let things come together in their own time. They are what they are, shaped by time, without force.

The pear tree stands, its roots deeper, its shade still cool. The juice still runs down my wrist, and the years feel lighter when I take a moment to notice what has always been here.