You grow toward the light you can find

Soil can twist you into improbable shapes

In the pygmy forest in Northern California, special trees grow. Leached of nutrients, the acidic soil twists native plants into alien shapes like bonsai. The familiar cypress resembles a Joshua tree. It’s not unexpected. You are what you read, you are what you eat, who you meet, and you are the ground beneath your feet.

Soil can twist you into improbable shapes.

Consider the honor-roll student nabbed for shoplifting. You see a criminal in the making. You might miss the absent parents or empty refrigerator. His soil is scarcity.

Or the manager who refuses to take sick day. You see a workaholic. You might miss the childhood where worth was measured in gold stars. Her soil is performance anxiety, fertilized with conditional love.

Soil shapes everything—what nutrients flow freely, what threats must be survived, what adaptations are essential. A mind formed in chaos learns to scan for danger. A mind formed in safety remains open. Like the acid-soaked cypress, neither chooses its shape.

You grow toward the light you can find.

Though we are born in different soil, we are all connected by the implacable will to survive.