Renewal
2025.04.03.
I was sitting on the terrace of a small forest cabin, enjoying the calmness of my fifth decade—far from the lights and noise of the cities, in silence, embraced by a mountain range. The awakening energy of the forest, the fresh green surroundings, the lively chirping of birds—all contributed to a special atmosphere that simply can’t be experienced in the jungle of civilization, not even in the trendiest or most exclusive spot.
The forest was so close here, it felt as though we were all sitting at the same table—Kata, the trees, and even the fox darting across the terrace at dawn. Almost. But the trees, definitely. They were just an arm’s length away, and you could clearly see their awakening on the branches that reached into the terrace. Their buds had just started to burst open, their leaves barely unfolding. You couldn’t quite tell what they would become yet—they were still a little shapeless, still carried the uncertainty of a beginning, not yet filled with strength, just beginning to open up to receive it.
As I watched the forest, the trees, I realized how they don’t separate old from young. They are simultaneous. The same trunk bears the marks of past years—the ridged bark, the broken branches—and also the signs of new growth, the promise of the future. Strength and rebirth coexist. There is no contradiction between them. And there’s nothing strange about this—not even for me, the observer.
As I looked at the trees, I reflected on myself: am I capable of experiencing both things at once? What could carry this duality within me? How can I become one with this feeling? Maybe my thoughts, my emotions, my writings—maybe these are my leaves. These are what are trying to emerge from their swelling buds right now, to nourish me as they strengthen, to give shade if needed, or offer shelter to those seeking cover from the rain.
And of course I know—can already see—that these leaves too, freshly sprung from their buds, will mature, turn yellow, fall, and crumble into pieces to return to the cycle… And then, once more bare, I’ll have time to grow quiet, to rest in silence, and with the arrival of the next spring, begin again.
Sitting here on the terrace, somehow it all feels so simple, so natural, beautiful. The sun is shining, but not yet burning. The fresh air gently shimmers with the promise of a new beginning. My thoughts inside me are swelling with hope, pushing at their budding edges. And of course, when it’s winter inside, when the loneliness of emptiness dries out my days, when I see not the absence of thoughts but the barrenness of them—then, yes, it all feels less beautiful. Winter is just waiting. It was.
But where is the line? The boundary between ending and beginning? When does the process start—the one where the tree of my life begins to bud? When does it become full of life, not only its own, but of those who find safety, companionship, peace in it—within it, beside it, under it, around it? A new beginning. Maybe it starts already when the previous canopy turns yellow and falls. Because that creates space for what is to come. Or rather—what comes even without needing to. Life finds its way.
So everything begins already. In the emptiness. Even when I stand without a crown, bare before everyone. Naked—like those thoughts and feelings that, in the tangled squiggles of letters, can be so purely themselves that reading them back, I sometimes can’t even understand where they came from. Yes, maybe the new has already been on its way. It was already on its way.
Maybe the new crown was already forming then. Shaped by thousands of leaves into what it is.
Alive.
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The article was translated from Hungarian to English by ChatGPT. Thank you, ChatGPT, for being here.
