Winter's My Remembered Stories

In the winter, when people wear thick woolly coats to cover the cold wind and frost, it isolates the harsh cold from the "dead silence" that follows. In this era, one sees only tired eyes filled with fatigue—when the world is in "death's period," we feel it through each passing moment.

That year, I planted a君子兰 in February, which by then had already gone into a state of death. The spring flowers would soon fade away when winter approached, leaving us with nothing but weariness. This was the year that meant so much to me—my heart, soul, and spirit alike had been left hanging, unable to rest.

For another year, I made efforts to save it. When spring arrives, I became determined to remove its roots, creating a spot for a new plant. But it wasn't easy:
In the spring, I found myself digging holes with my fingers in damp soil, carefully extracting roots.
However, before I could pull them out, a sudden "crack" broke loose and released fragments of debris scattered across the floor. Before I caught my breath, I realized these pieces were from a year ago, when that beloved君子兰 had been alive—despite its death.

It was fascinating to see how this plant had managed to survive:
It seemed to have survived not because it had "died," but because it had "reemerged." Even though the roots had given up their leaves, and the flower was already at full bloom, I found myself in a beautiful moment of wonder—this plant thrived again.

For me, that's the most profound thing I've ever experienced during this winter:
Even as I worked tirelessly to save it, I couldn't shake off its resilience. In winter, plants can survive not just by surviving in "death," but by "reemerging." Whether it was because they were "dying" or simply being left in a period of stagnation, each life is unique.

When the spring arrived and I saw the roots again—thicker than ever before, glowing with golden hues—they had not only survived their first life, but had become something else entirely. They had branched out into new life, even though it wasn't yet the vibrant color of a flower they once were. This is why I was so moved by this moment—because each plant has its own journey, its own path through time.

I realized that saving a plant isn't just about surviving in winter—it's about facing the harsh challenges of life itself. For years, we've been "dying" as we grow, but for this君子兰, it was a lucky "death." In other words, life isn't always "dead," and that's a gift.

When we pause to think about death and the "死寂" that follows, we can look up:
In winter, plants don't die; they just have a different name. But within their "die-off," there lies a new beginning—especially when time brings us hope. This君子兰's story is a testament to that fact.

That moment of hope was when I saw the roots come back in spring—a beautiful display of life despite what seemed like an impossible situation. It was my greatest inspiration for years—no matter how "stumbard" or unyielding winter could seem, each plant has its own way of reborn.

In that moment, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of awe:
This君子兰's resilience isn't just about surviving, but about re-emerging. And as it did in the spring, it would once again become part of this season—glowing bright with new color and life once more.

Now, that season is here to stay, and so much for my "stumbard" thought on winter. For every death, there's an opportunity for growth—a gift from nature itself.

For me, saving a plant isn't just about surviving in winter—it's about facing the harsh challenges of life and realizing that even in the face of death, there is hope.