Though bitterly cold today, I spotted new buds on the ginkgo outside the window, and felt a quiet joy. I watched snow and sleet tossed by the wind, falling to the ground, never to return to the sky or branches that were never really theirs.

Yet beneath the new year's sun they slowly melted into water, finding their way back into the tree's veins — becoming vapour, becoming oxygen, returning to the boundless world, nourishing the ginkgo's first buds.

Perhaps I am like that too. I wouldn't dare call myself life-giving water or vital oxygen — only that I feel untethered, drifting without destination. But I believe the world will one day need even me.

Then again, to be the sun that warms all ages would also be fine. So: home is where the heart settles, become the sun of your own inner world — and I set off again, on my own two arms.