I noticed it last Tuesday: Every houseplant in the apartment had turned toward the south-facing window. Not just the ones on the sill, all of them. The fern in the corner had pivoted twenty degrees. The pothos on the bookshelf had sent its newest vine questing sideways rather than down. Even the stubborn snake plant, which I'd always thought of as indifferent to light, had reoriented itself overnight.
They migrate daily now, these tiny pilgrims. Imperceptible unless you watch for weeks, but undeniable once you see it. Leaves reaching, stems bending, roots probably shifting in their pots, all following the scarce winter light across shortened days. Patient, persistent, never stopping their slow-motion journey toward what sustains them.
We do this too, don't we? In winter, we migrate. Not south (most of us), not far, but toward warmth. Toward light. We cluster near radiators, seek out sunny spots, angle ourselves toward whatever brightness we can find. We move through our homes like houseplants in slow motion, following the light we need to survive.
There's something humbling in this. Something honest. We are not so different from the fern, the pothos, the stubborn snake plant. We reach. We bend. We reorient ourselves toward what we need, patient in our persistent reaching, never apologizing for following light.