Leaves Are Green

Life often has a way of teaching profound lessons in the smallest, most unexpected moments. Not long ago, I witnessed a series of interactions that quietly unfolded around me, leaving a deep impression. They were moments of simplicity—ordinary, yet brimming with the kind of beauty that speaks directly to the heart.

One evening, as I walked near my home, I saw a mother and her young daughter returning from a stroll. The little girl was riding her bicycle, wobbling slightly with the enthusiasm only children can muster. Suddenly, she missed a dip in the ground filled with rainwater, lost her balance, and tumbled headfirst into the puddle. I instinctively stopped, expecting the mother to rush over, to scoop her up, to say something. But she didn’t.

Instead, the mother stayed where she was, standing calmly a short distance away. The little girl cried, her sobs echoing in the quiet street. She struggled to her feet, her tiny hands gripping the handlebars of her bicycle. She picked it up, still crying, and trudged back to her mother. When she reached her, the mother gently caressed her head and asked softly, “What happened?” Through her tears, the girl replied, “I fell.” Her mother smiled and said, “It’s okay to fall sometimes. That’s how we learn.”

The child sniffled, looked up, and to my amazement, smiled. It was a moment of pure understanding—a child absorbing the quiet wisdom of an adult. The mother hadn’t rushed to rescue her, hadn’t fussed. She simply stood by, ready to offer comfort and a lesson, both of which the little girl seemed to accept with grace.

Another day, I was waiting for a flight, standing in line behind a family of three—a father, mother, and their small boy. The boy, full of curiosity and energy, suddenly noticed a red airport bus through the window and yelled excitedly, “The fire truck!” His father, calm and patient, turned to him and said gently, “It’s not a fire truck. It’s an airport bus, and it can be red too.”

The boy, confused, began to argue. “No! It’s red. All red cars are fire trucks!” His father didn’t correct him harshly. Instead, he knelt to the boy’s level and explained, “Yes, it’s red, but not all red things are fire trucks. This is an airport bus.” The boy stared at the bus, his little mind working to understand. And then, with wide eyes, he exclaimed, “What?! I didn’t know that!”

His joy at learning something new was contagious. In that moment, the father had done more than just correct his son—he had helped him see the world differently. The boy had learned a new concept, a broader way of understanding things, and I imagined him eagerly sharing this revelation with his friends later.

A few weeks earlier, during my honeymoon at Kamala Beach, I had witnessed another such moment. My husband and I were watching the sunset when I noticed a baby toddling along with their mother, holding her hand for balance. Suddenly, the baby stopped, their attention caught by something neither the mother nor I could see. Without warning, the baby lunged toward it, pulling their mother forward with all their might.

The mother, calm but firm, held on and tried to reason with her child. But the baby, adamant, began to cry and throw a fit, tugging insistently in the direction of their unseen treasure. The mother knelt, whispered something in the baby’s ear, and pointed toward a distraction. But the baby refused to budge.

Eventually, the mother relented, allowing the baby to lead her. Curious, I followed their line of sight and finally saw it—a small toy airplane half-buried in the sand. The baby crouched down and began to wipe the sand away, their tiny hands working diligently. They looked up at their mother occasionally for reassurance, but the mother stood back, watching quietly. She didn’t intervene. She didn’t rush to help. She simply let the baby do the work, offering an encouraging nod now and then.

As I watched, I realized the mother was teaching her child a lesson in responsibility, even in that seemingly mundane moment. If the baby wanted the airplane, they would have to clean it themselves. And so they did, with a determination that was both endearing and inspiring.

Later, as I reflected on these moments, my husband remarked, “It’s so human to watch a baby communicate like that.” I nodded and said, “We’re all human, after all—leaves of the same tree.”

It struck me then how much we, as adults, often overlook the simple beauty of being human. We draw lines between what’s “natural” and “man-made,” as though we are separate from the world around us. But aren’t we, as humans, part of nature too? Everything we create is an extension of ourselves and, in turn, of nature.

These small, ordinary moments—a mother teaching resilience, a father expanding his son’s understanding, a baby learning responsibility—reminded me of the quiet connections that bind us all. In the rush of life, it’s easy to miss these fleeting lessons. But if we pause and pay attention, we find that the extraordinary often hides in the most ordinary interactions