Today, in the stillness of winter, I realized how brilliant my twin brother is. I have always thought of him as highly intelligent. More than that, though, he is a force of good in my life, a being who encompasses constancy, sincere honesty, and all of those facets of society that I wish I beheld more often in other human beings.
Truthfully, I have been struggling with maintaining the same vibrancy I see within him these past months; I find myself looking for the broken pieces of our world upon which to cut my fingers. And there he is: always ready to mend my hands. I cherish him.
One afternoon, while we were walking through the brisk and battling winds of snowfields, we talked. We shared how we were feeling, how we viewed humanity’s tangible vicissitude, and my twin gently reminded me of the triumphs our world continues to nurture in defiance of the tragedies we are living through. However, what I found so powerful was that, unlike my prevailing bias in placing human beings at the center of all achievement, my brother discussed the success of plants, of things that grow simply because they must.
He described the delicacy of peonies, how they flourished, what they symbolized, their perfect mutualism with the ants that could spoil a picnic and also cause sweet florescence. He spewed metaphors and similes as verdant as the plants whose names he recited, relaying how much we can learn from “those whose speech we rarely stop to listen to, let alone attempt to understand.” I found myself staring at the snow, imagining boughs and buds bursting forth with a vigor I could only hope to emulate.
My brother’s willingness to casually gift me the knowledge that would allow me to engage with nature in such intimate ways was akin to anything I have felt with someone I truly cared about, through reading poetry, tasting the best meal of my life, or landing a new job. It was euphoric, and all he did was describe to me how other living things continue onward despite global atrocities. I felt changed, and welcomed once more, by the living lyceum surrounding me, bestowing silent revelations. There were a few brief moments of envy when I desperately wished that I had arrived in this proverbial place of quietude on my own, but I was comforted by the fact that I have far more conversations, with both my twin and the plants whose languages I have yet to comprehend, to learn from and savor.
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My brother’s generosity in welcoming me into the sanctity of nature felt healing, potentially from some hurt that had not yet been inflicted, and would now be wholly prevented. It felt rapturous, and so I asked him of other marvels that he leaned on in times of misery. He then spoke of “moon trees.”
For anyone who is unfamiliar, NASA launched Apollo 14 to orbit Earth’s moon in 1971. Aboard the vessel were astronauts, provisions and equipment, and tree seeds that Stu Roosa (the command module pilot of the mission) had stowed away. These seeds traveled through the void and the stars with the crew, and, upon returning to Earth, they germinated and were distributed across the world to national parks and historic locations. The saplings were strong, and, in some aspects, considered to be imbued with an abstruse vitality. They were fondly referred to as “moon trees,” and many continue to prosper today despite everything.
In 2023, more seeds were ferried to space upon the Orion spacecraft. These precious beginnings traveled thousands of miles for over a month before returning to Earth and being cultivated. This time, however, the moon trees were granted to schools, children’s camps, town halls, and community parks. In fact, organizations from across the globe were encouraged to write to NASA and illustrate why these precious trees would be beneficial to their communities, garnering over one-thousand submissions. Students, teachers, construction workers, hair stylists, and other changemakers wrote about the nearly ineffable hope that the moon trees represented and how they would remedy the increasing apathy of our celestial sphere by bringing everyone together.
My brother then described his own adventure locating a precious moon tree at the botanical garden where he once worked, and how he had made a point to map the location of the tree, a sturdy sycamore, so that everyone in the area could marvel at it.
“It is magnificent,” he said as we walked, our warm breath misting in front of us. “And it is important for others to see that.”
I found myself getting emotional, recognizing the goodness within my twin, and understanding that he himself is, in more ways than one, a moon tree of sorts. He is someone who, like the powder-pink peonies, provides a sweetness that I crave in this bitter reality. He is a being, like the moon trees, who grants his own energy to lift others around him, all while harboring that same spirit that can only be born of stardust and moonlight.
I am proud of my brother for the numerous achievements that punctuate the years of his young life, but I, as his twin, feel fortunate beyond words that I, being half of something that also created him, could potentially be a moon tree to someone someday. I could become the peonies, in early spring, that don crowns of blushing heads, gilded in ants and glistening sugar.
I can choose to grow, whether it is in my ability to say that I was wrong, or to seek to understand when someone else fails to admit that they need help. I should prune my pride so that it does not become hubris, and I can nourish my everyday with humility and gratitude. Most importantly, I must decide to love without condition or expectation. For then, I may be pleasantly surprised when someone reaches out, bouquet in hand, to love me in return.
Yes, I believe that my twin brother has a brilliance that I rarely observe in other souls, but that is precisely why I am so grateful to discover it all over again, on our walks together, during these wintry days. He, along with Mother Nature, generously remind me that I may yet bloom in the snow and ash that surround me.
