By Anu Prabhala, Maryland

On the feminine divine, life’s transitions, and the strength we carry within

It was Navarathri, the nine-day Hindu festival celebrating Devi (Divine Mother or the feminine divine), and for the first time in years, I decided to light a lamp before the Devi’s altar in our home.

I usually light my lamp at the altar in the same room. But this year, something drew me toward our beautiful three-panel Tanjavur painting (see above), which has adorned our wall for ten years. Specially commissioned for us and shipped from Bengaluru, India, the painting shows Lakshmi, the goddess of spiritual wealth, on the left, and Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, on the right.

As I lit the lamp, hoping the flame wouldn’t make the dainty bells dangling above it too hot, I found myself looking into their faces.

And something quite unexpected happened.

I felt compassion. Not so much for them as from them. Their gentle smiles and serene eyes seemed to hold a knowing understanding, almost as though they were saying, I know. I am here.

I had looked at these paintings countless times before. Why was I seeing them differently now?

Perhaps it had something to do with the transitions unfolding in my own life: an uncertain professional future; a book I had dreamed of writing for years finally taking shape; a son edging ever so close to the day when he would leave home and begin his own adventures; and my 88-year-old mother in India, with whom I’ve spent many wonderful years (and still yearn to spend much more time with).

So much to be grateful for, and yet so much to take in, anticipate, and occasionally worry about.

And here were these two women—goddesses, no less—looking back at me with expressions of such extraordinary tenderness.

I am hardly a scholar of Sanatana Dharma (a.k.a. Hinduism), and my knowledge of the many forms of the divine mother is limited. But at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about scriptures, symbolism, or theology.

I was thinking about the feminine divine. About the extraordinary capacity of women to absorb life’s uncertainties, to nurture, to persevere, to find strength when strength seems in short supply.

And about how comforting it was, for once, to feel that someone else was looking after me!

Women in the Seats of Power

In South India, during Navarathri, we worship three manifestations of the feminine divine: Durga, for her strength and courage; Lakshmi, for the material and spiritual wealth she represents; and Saraswati, for knowledge, wisdom, speech, and music.

How wonderful, I thought, to have women in the seats of power! Not political power, but something far more fundamental—the very source of strength, abundance, and knowledge.

And really, who’d be better than a woman to untangle a messy situation, knock some common sense into everyone involved, and steer things toward a happier outcome? 😉

But jokes aside, I began thinking about how much women take in.

We absorb other people’s anxieties, manage expectations, juggle responsibilities, hold families together, and somehow keep plowing ahead. We are mothers, daughters, wives, friends, professionals, caregivers—often several of these at once.

And somewhere amid all these roles, we must also find room for ourselves. For our own aspirations, disappointments, uncertainties, and dreams.

Perhaps that was why I felt so drawn to the Devis this year. I wasn’t looking at distant, impossibly perfect goddesses. I was beginning to recognize something of our own lives in what they represent.

Strength doesn’t always look like a tigress charging into battle. Although some of my oldest friends might disagree! Born on the second day of Navarathri, I was named Durga Annapurna. For decades, a group of friends, including my dear friend Bindi, have affectionately called me “Purni-Sherni”—Purni (total/complete?) the Tigress—for my reputation as a fierce go-getter. Bindi even gifted me a hand-painted tigress for one of my recent birthdays!

But lately, I have been discovering another kind of strength—one that is gentler and manifests more quietly. Sometimes it simply means getting up in the morning and carrying on, even when you aren’t quite sure what comes next.

And knowledge isn’t always about finding the right answer. Sometimes it is the wisdom to recognize that not everything needs to be resolved today—and to trust that we will find our way.

The Devis Among Us

During Navarahtri, I experienced another reminder of the feminine divine—this time, not in the gilded panels of a Tanjavur painting, but in a roomful of women gathered at my friend Manju’s home.

We sang bhajans (devotional songs) and chanted shlokas (sacred Sanskrit verses passed down over millennia that share eternal truth). We laughed, posed for pictures, ate sumptuous food, exchanged stories, gossiped a little (surely, the goddesses would forgive us!), and shared some of our worries and woes.

Manju explained the festival’s significance. Anju offered a Vedantic (from ancient Hindu scriptures) perspective. And Gabriela appeared resplendent in a sari, perhaps to the astonishment of her American husband and German family!

Wisdom, laughter, generosity, compassion, and strength filled that room. And, of course, plenty of good food.

As I looked around, I realized the Devis we worship aren’t so far removed from the women we are.

Each of us carries her own share of responsibilities, anxieties, hopes, disappointments, and dreams. Yet, for a few precious hours that evening, we set our responsibilities and worries aside. We were simply ourselves—women enjoying one another’s company, drawing strength from shared experiences, and finding joy in belonging.

But perhaps our evening had even offered us a kind of victory—over isolation, worries, and the little burdens that sometimes weigh down our spirits.

I arrived at Manju’s home to celebrate the Devis. I left feeling that I had spent the evening in their company.

And perhaps, in some small way, we had all rediscovered the Devis within ourselves.

These days, when I look at my Tanjavur painting (see the painting above), I still see those knowing smiles.

And I find myself smiling back.

—Anu Prabhala, originally from India lives in Maryland. She adds: “If these reflections resonate with you, subscribe to my weekly blog, Imperfectly Perfect, free at https://anuprabhala.substack.com/subscribe for more stories about life, its surprises, and the ways we learn to see.”

Note: The Navarathri festival was recently celebrated from Oct. 11-20; Oct. 20th being the Vijayadashami (or Dussehra). In 2027, Navarathri will be celebrated from Sept. 30th through Oct. 9th. On October 21st, the USPS released a new postal stamp to observe the annual five-day Hindu festival of lights, Diwali, which will be celebrated Nov. 7-11, 2026.

And that Choice is Available to Us Every day

By Zoe Leitner, age 18, New Jersey.

I have a history of taking action. I believe that action is the most honest form of belief. Conviction means little unless it alters how we behave—what we build, what we interrupt, and what we refuse to ignore. Awareness is only a beginning; agency begins when we decide to respond.

My understanding of action began somewhere ordinary: the kitchen. For my mom and me, baking together, mostly chocolate, was routine, almost background noise. But in 2020, I realized that familiarity could be a tool for change. I started selling over 600 hot chocolate bombs in my community, raising more than $4,000 and reaching over 80 families. I didn’t do it to seek recognition, but in response to what I saw around me: needs that could be met, even in small ways.

The project worked not because of novelty, but because it was accessible. Participation didn’t require prior experience, complicated forms, or large commitments. Anyone could contribute in a meaningful way. It was easy to understand, easy to engage with, and immediately relevant to the people it aimed to serve. What mattered most was how the money was used afterward. Instead of deciding what organizations might need, I asked them. Jackets instead of cash. Food instead of flyers. Listening reshaped my understanding of service: meaningful help begins with attention, not assumption.

That lesson stayed with me. In 2023, I founded Chocolate4Charity, a nonprofit that channels my love of baking into meaningful impact. Through partnerships with Pink Jewels Boutique, David Chad Beauty Parlor, Nicole Nicosia Hair, and Smith & Company Gifts, we’ve sold over 800 boxes, raising nearly $10,000 for causes I care deeply about: $3,000 to the Mark Schonwetter Holocaust Education Foundation, $3,500 to the Montclair Animal Shelter, $1,000 to MIB Agents Pediatric Cancer Research, and 200 chocolate boxes donated to Comfort Zone Bereavement Camps.. Over 80 students have joined me in volunteering, packaging, and delivering chocolates, discovering firsthand how small actions ripple outward. Each box doesn’t just deliver chocolate; it gives people a chance to contribute, participate, and see the real impact of their efforts.

Chocolate is the vehicle, not the focus. Some causes reflect my family’s history. Supporting Holocaust education honors my great-grandparents, Holocaust survivors, and my grandparents, immigrants, whose experiences shaped my understanding of responsibility. Other causes reflect friendship, grief, and compassion, such as supporting a peer battling cancer, helping children navigate loss, and advocating for animal rights.

The most important measure of success is not the money raised but the number of people who participate. Many people want to help but hesitate because they do not know where to begin. Chocolate4Charity offers an accessible entry point through packaging chocolates, sharing a cause, or delivering donations. I have watched classmates who rarely speak up—over 80 in total—discover a sense of purpose simply by stepping into action. Real impact begins not with grand gestures but with invitations that inspire others to act.

In 2025, I was honored as a Top Upstander at an event organized by a library in Montclair, New Jersey, in collaboration with children’s book author Dr. Janice Cohn. The recognition was meaningful, but I do not see it as a title or an accolade. To me, being an Upstander is deliberate. It is the refusal to remain passive once you notice something that needs attention. It is the choice to respond, even when the right path is unclear or imperfect.

This understanding resonates with a message Dr. Janice Cohn often shares: “Light a tiny candle.” Action is not about being seen; it’s about aligning belief with our behavior. It is found in everyday decisions—listening, offering help, stepping forward when silence would be easier. That philosophy continues to guide my work with Chocolate4Charity and in other parts of my life.

Being an Upstander, like any meaningful action, is not a single moment. It’s a practice, a habit, and a commitment to notice what others might overlook. In that sense, recognition matters less than the choices that lead to it. Action remains its own reward.

Action began in a kitchen for me, with melted chocolate and a question I could not ignore: What will I do with what I see? That question has guided every choice I’ve made since that first chocolate, and to the moments when I have chosen to speak, listen, and act.

Meaningful change requires aligning belief with behavior, noticing what needs attention, and inviting others to work with you. Real impact is rarely sudden or dramatic. It is built from small, intentional acts that ripple outward, shaping communities, relationships, and lives in ways that are often invisible, yet enduring.

I truly believe taking action is a choice, and that choice is available to us every day. That’s where responsibility begins, and that’s where belief becomes real!

—Zoe Leitner, Age 18, New Jersey.

By Alexa Dunsche, age 13, New York.

Don’t be quiet at school
otherwise people won’t like you;

be kind
but don’t be too kind otherwise it’ll come off as desperate;

you have to keep up with your work
but don’t go too far ahead otherwise you are a “goody two shoes”;

you have to be yourself
but you also have to be what other people want you to be in order to fit in;

“Aren’t you the quiet kid in school?”

you have to be nice to everyone 
even if they don’t treat you right;

“I have to be quiet because if I stand up for myself,
I will get shut down”;

you have to be loud and proud
otherwise no one will hear you;

“You are doing everything wrong!”

you have to smile for the picture
even if where you are smiling is purgatory;

you have to keep your cards close to your chest
but not too close otherwise people will think you are hiding something;

you can’t dress in black otherwise people will think you are emo
but you can’t dress too colorful either, otherwise people will look at you
like a little kid;

you have to follow the trends
but you can’t be too invested in them because it’s not cool the next day;

“I’m trying!”

you have to stay and not cry
because if you do, they will get pleasure;

you have to be perfect.
you just have to be.

if you make one little mistake,
you’re a failure;

one bad mark
can damage your grade forever;

one misstep
can send you to the hospital with a cast on your leg;

one wrong move
and you lose the game;

one new friend
and you lose the whole friend group;

one public embarrassment
and no one can be seen with you;

one wrong thing
not the whole story

By Alexa Dunsche, age 13, grade 7, New York. Alexa adds: “This poem came from the pressure I feel to be perfect, and how one wrong move can feel like it ruins everything. In the moment, I felt like each mistake I made erased everything else. Writing this poem helped me realize it doesn’t have to be that way. One wrong thing can feel huge, but it doesn’t define who you are.”

We have a wonderful Earth
And we should try to preserve it
So more babies can be birthed
And introduced to our Earth
Our wonderful, wonderful, wonderful Earth
We have a beautiful Earth
With large, green grasslands and rainforests
And elegant blue oceans
With those always present sea-green waves
And filled with living beings to support
Our sweet, sweet Earth
There is much knowledge
Science, astronomy, mathematics
And they are just a small part of the knowledge
On our smart, smart Earth

Who knows what we can achieve?
All we know is we can go above and beyond
Who knows what more there is for us to discover?
Who knows how far we can go?
Let us keep on learning and understanding
And discovering new ways
To protect and preserve nature on
Our sweet, wonderful, beautiful Earth
Our dear, kind, gentle Earth
Our amazing, sustaining, ever-providing Earth
Our smart, dazzling, awesome Earth
Our Earth!

By Elodie K. Cotton, grade 7, Connecticut. Elodie is also our student intern.

Stuffed

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey.

Stuffed, stuffed, the house is stuffed
With stuffed toys that need to be thrown out
A waste of space
I am told to get rid of them!

But when I look around
Memories abound
First, the dozens of stuffed Pokemon
Evoke memories of family trips to Japan
I cradle an Eevee, a treasured prize won
With bated breath at a claw machine in Tokyo
I squeeze Lapras, the comforting pillow I hugged
On the 18-hour flight to visit family
I can almost still hear my brother’s high-pitched shrieks
During our made-up game of Pokemon Dodgeball
Can I let them go?

Next, the stuffed shaved ice from Singapore
Its name—Ice Kachang* —reminds me
Of Singlish and its foreign yet endearing sounds
English, Mandarin, Hokkien**, and Malay smashed
Into one bizarre hodgepodge
Intelligible only to insiders
Like Singlish, I am a mash
Of American and Asian
Do others understand me?

Then, a stuffed chocolate bar
A souvenir from Hershey
During my grandmother’s first and last visit
Before the chemotherapy failed
The only stuffed toy she ever bought for me
Mum says Grandma never bought her stuffed toys
But that time, she got one for me
Isn’t it a souvenir of her?

Stuffed, stuffed, my mind is stuffed
Stuffed with memories I want to keep in
Precious treasures
That only I hold in my heart

Notes:
*Kachang is the Malay word for nuts
**Hokkien is a Southern Chinese dialect

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey. She adds: “My parents were born in Singapore but I was born in America. My family visits Singapore or Japan nearly every year because we have family in those countries. I speak and write both English and Mandarin, but it takes a lot of time and effort to learn Mandarin in America and I find it very difficult. My mother wanted me to learn Mandarin so I could understand her culture better. However, when we visit Singapore, they do not often speak Mandarin. They speak a version of English that they call “Singlish.” It is a mixture of several local languages, mainly Mandarin, Hokkien (a Southern Chinese dialect), Malay, and English. Singlish can be quite confusing for me—something I mention in my poem.”
“I was inspired to write this poem, titled Stuffed, because I have a lot of stuffed toys and my mum often talks about getting rid of them to reduce clutter in the house. But these items all have histories and meaning to me.”

By Kate Han, age 16, from South Korea, studies in Canada.

‘A’ Series of Journeys by Kate Han, age 16, Canada.

I’ve always struggled with the question, “Where are you from?” It’s not that I don’t know; the answer has never felt complete. I was born in Korea, spent much of my childhood in India, and now study in Canada. Each country left something inside me, not just as memories but as layers of identity. My artwork (see above) , ‘A’ Series of Journeys, emerged from this sense of fragmented belonging. But without the backstory, I realized the artwork feels like a silent map—colorful but unexplained. This is the narrative behind that map.

From Korea to India: My First Migration

I was five when my family moved from Seoul to Bangalore. What I remember most from those early days was the constant feeling of being “new.” New sounds, new smells, new alphabets. Even at that age, I knew I wasn’t just visiting—I was being asked to live someone else’s normal. In school, I was the only Korean girl. I didn’t speak Kannada or Hindi, and I barely knew English. But children don’t wait for fluency. I played tag with my hands, not my words. I watched others tie their shoes, share lunch, and greet teachers. I mimicked until it became second nature.

India gave me my first lesson in courage: that you can belong without blending in thoroughly. My neighbors wore saris and spoke a language I didn’t understand, but they treated me like family. We celebrated Diwali together, and over time, the questions stopped being “Where are you from?” and started becoming “Are you coming to dinner?”

India didn’t erase my Korean self. Instead, it added to it. I still spoke Korean at home, wrote Hangul in my diary, and celebrated Chuseok with food parcels from my grandmother. But the girl who lit sparklers on the rooftop during Deepavali wasn’t pretending. She was expanding.

Canada: A New Kind of Destination

Years later, I moved again—this time on my own, to a boarding school in Canada. If India was about cultural immersion, Canada was about cultural comparison. I had more words now, and more awareness. I could see how my classmates viewed “Asia” as a single block. I could also see how they saw me: someone exotic, sometimes confusing, occasionally admirable. Someone told me, “Wow, your English is excellent.” It was meant as a compliment, but I felt the space between us widen.

Boarding school life sharpened my understanding of identity—mine and everyone’s. I met friends from Nigeria, Ukraine, Mexico, and Australia. Some had never left their home countries before.

Some, like me, had already moved across continents. We bonded over strange cafeteria food, homesickness, and midnight conversations about who we were becoming.

Canada taught me that identity is not a finished product. It’s in constant motion. You carry your past, but you also build your future with every choice—what you say, how you listen, which memories you protect.

Why I Made the Board

‘A’ Series of Journeys started as a personal project to visualize this idea of motion. I used pins and thread to create intersections, connections, and collisions. Each line on the board represented a person, a place, a story, or a version of myself. The foam base—soft yet firm—symbolized the adaptability I’ve had to develop. The photos marked moments in time that still speak to me. Together, they formed a chaotic and orderly piece, much like my life.

But something felt unfinished. It was only after receiving the Skipping Stones Editor message that I understood why. The board is a conversation starter, but it needs a voice. The images are full of meaning, but only when paired with a story. Without this reflection, the piece may be a decorative design, not a lived experience. That’s why I’m writing this—to give the work its missing voice.

What I’ve Learned

I’ve learned that home is not a location—it’s a rhythm. It’s in how you wake up, how you say goodbye, what you find strange, and what you start calling your own. In India, I learned to listen before speaking. In Canada, I learned to question people’s meaning by saying “diversity.” In Korea, roots can deepen even when far from the soil.

Another lesson: People are much more than the labels we use. The word “immigrant” doesn’t tell whether someone is hopeful or scared. “International student” doesn’t reveal how many languages people hear in their dreams. I’ve learned to ask better questions. Not “Where are you from?” but “What feels like home to you?”

Above all, I’ve learned that my journey is not a detour—it’s the main road. My experiences are not interruptions to everyday life; they are my life. And through them, I’ve gained a sense of the world and a stronger sense of self.

Why This Matters

For young people like me, art is more than expression. It’s a translation. It’s how we turn complexity into something we can share. I hope ‘A’ Series of Journeys speaks to anyone who has felt between places, languages, or versions of themselves. I hope it shows that confusion can lead to clarity and discomfort can lead to growth.

This write-up is not the end of the project—it’s part of it. The series continues as long as I live, move, reflect, and create.

By Kate Han, age 16, grade 11, originally from South Korea, currently studies in a boarding school in British Columbia, Canada.

By Kathy Shen, Age 11, New York. 

On a cloudy Monday morning, Bridgette was doodling in her sketchpad when she felt something hard and rough while reaching for her eraser. She turned and looked down to see a red notebook sitting at the roots of the ancient maple tree, as if it was waiting for Bridgette to pick it up. Bridgette was sure this wasn’t hers—she remembered clearly that there was not a notebook in sight yesterday nor throughout the week. She glanced around, unsure. The notebook looked old, with its leather spine peeling, but a bright red cover that still stood out against the gloomy, grey sky. Curiosity overwhelmed her and she flipped the notebook over to the first line on the first page.

In dainty, cursive handwriting, there was a message on the first line that said, “Write what you wish to be true.”

There was no name, explanation, or any other words on that page. It was as if the notebook had been waiting for her to make a wish.

***

Once Bridgette arrived home, she slipped off her sneakers and ran upstairs to examine the notebook. Through all her classes she was busy wondering if this notebook was a fraud or if it would actually work. She decided to keep it a secret in case anyone accused her of something. Bridgette grabbed her book and placed it on her desk. Tired from all this uncertainty, she took a deep breath and decided to test the powers of this notebook.

With shaky fingers as her pencil hovered over the second page, Bridgette wrote down, “I wish for tomorrow to be sunny.” She waited a while, half expecting something to happen, but the only sounds were the cars driving by outside. She sighed in disappointment as she saw the same old words on the page. Feeling a bit foolish and ready to go into a deep slumber, Bridgette crawled onto her bed with her thoughts racing.

Eventually, the silence rocked her to sleep.

***

The next morning came a little too quickly for Bridgette, as the rays of sunlight blinded her eyes when they opened. The thought of the notebook popped into her mind. Quickly, she jumped out of her bed and grabbed the notebook, flipped to the second page, and now saw a little check mark by her wish.

Bridgette’s heart quickened as she realized that her wish truly came true! Her mind began racing with ideas that she could make happen with the help of this notebook. Rinnnnggggg! Bridgette’s alarm went off, reminding her to get downstairs to leave. She quickly slammed her notebook into her backpack, put on her shoes, and ran down the stairs, eager to start the school day. Slamming the door shut, Bridgette practically skipped her way to school. She realized being friendless would bring her an advantage in keeping her magic notebook a secret.

 ***

As Bridgette walked to her seat, her head buzzed with excitement and she clutched her backpack straps a little tighter than before. If the notebook could change the weather, could it change her whole life?        

That afternoon, during lunch, Bridgette went to the library and sat down at a table. She carefully took her notebook out and flipped to a fresh page to write something new. With her hand no longer shaking, she wrote down the words, “I wish to be popular.” Bridgette stared at the words for a good minute, until the nervous, yet excited flutters left her chest. The bell rang just at that time, and she closed the book, hurrying to class.

The next day, when she walked up the steps, people she had never even seen before greeted her and smiled. At lunch, the cool crew, made up of football players and cheerleaders, insisted that Bridgette sit with them. Chelsea, the head cheerleader, smiled warmly.

“Bridgette! We were just saying how it feels like you’ve always been part of our group.”

Marcus, the quarterback, nodded, “Yeah, it’s like you’ve always belonged here.”

Bridgette blinked, surprised and a little unsure if they really knew her or if this was part of the magic. Even older students complimented her on her hair and style, saying it was so “original and lighthearted.” Bridgette’s hair was let down as always, and she still had her usual outfit of jeans and a t-shirt on. 

By the end of the week, Bridgette had already been invited to three parties, two study meets, and a popular kids group chat. There were all the cheerleaders, student council members, football players, soccer players, and anyone else who was a high member of her school society. However, She realized that people started laughing their lungs out at every joke she made.

“Why don’t scientists trust atoms?” she asked, and then smiled before the room exploded with laughter.

“Because they make up everything!” Bridgette was not sure if she even found this joke worthy of exploding over. She had used it as a test, curious to see what it was like being in the spotlight.

Little by little, Bridgette’s desk stopped being crammed full of sketchbooks and eraser shavings. Instead, it became full of party invitations and bottles of lip gloss. Bridgette finally realized that being popular was smiling all the time, laughing at everything, and performing. She felt as if she had to be “on” all the time. 

***

That night, when Bridgette came home, she went straight to her room and looked at the mirror. The person looking back was not the person who loved to draw or felt calm under the maple tree. The spark in her eyes seemed to have dimmed.

Bridgette sat on the bed, thinking about her wish. Being popular was not what she had imagined. It felt fake, empty, and lonely.

Slowly, she took out the notebook once more. On the next clean page she wrote down her wish:

“I wish to be myself again.”

By Kathy Shen, Age 11, New York. She adds: “I speak both English and Mandarin Chinese, and I come from a Chinese American background. I love storytelling, reading, and especially spending time with dogs, my favorite breed is the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel! Sadly, I do not have one yet.

“What’s important to me is fairness, honesty, and standing up for others. When I grow up, I want to be a judge or a lawyer because I care about justice and helping people. I also enjoy writing stories that explore emotions and choices, and I hope to get better and better at it. Writing helps me express what I’m thinking, and I love using it to imagine different possibilities.”

Lipless mouth of the earth—she has planted her many clocks
The ground is pregnant in too many places
with tiny empresses on her wrist 

Her hands weed out the thyme; time is a spool; an autumn seamstress of patience
A tundra tending architect
Club bouncer of biomes

Find her; search her
thaw her out—
her belly has swollen too big

Her nurturing placenta caskets; pulping over; the collection, 
Of everything inside her, childish and buried;
Asphyxiated paper cut-out dolls
Frosting over

Ask them; flax and psyllium
Aren’t fathers equal to mothers?
As pistil is to stamen
Tell me, Fertilizer and measuring tape of sacrifice

Mother has become a statue and we no longer wait,
Waiting is for summer, when she is an ant mound

And we bring her saffron offerings
And a whistle for her feet

So that she blesses this house that waits for
No one and nothing but garden gnomes and
Wrist watches

Underground, father doesn’t know how we exist
He knows only that we are boundless
Citizens of space debris

Father is our earth monger 
Soil for soul

—Rose Haberer, Canada. She writes: “My name is Rose Haberer. I am sixteen years old from Toronto, Canada. My family has roots in Poland, Lithuania and South Africa. My writing is inspired by feminism and the authors I love such as Kelly Link, Jennifer Egan, Mona Awad, Joan Didion, and Sylvia Plath—along with the women in my life who have led me to write about the struggles and complexities of femininity.

Overwhelmed by thoughts of climate disaster, I often find myself flooded with emotions that I need to excise through artistic expression. In this piece, I reflect on how nature functions within my family, how the ecosystem in my backyard is tended to, and how my family members each have roles within that ecosystem, both functional and emotional. In the piece, I view the members of my family as belonging to the garden, reflecting how we are all children of nature.

By Chuck Curatalo, New York.

“I’d better hurry!” said Pamela, dashing down the stairs. Her loose shoes clunketty-clunked down the wooden steps.

“Slow down,” said Mother. “And tie those shoes like a good first grader.”

“But Mom, I just cannot be late for school today. Miss Jones is teaching science. Science is about animals and other things,” she recited before gulping down her milk and dashing out to the bus stop.

“Today we will begin learning about plants,” said Miss Jones as she began the lesson. “Plants are living things—just like you and me. Let’s make a collection of plants for our Show and Tell. Then we can learn how they live and grow.”

“But Miss Jones, how can a plant be like us? It does not have a mouth and a nose.”

Miss Jones laughed. “Be patient. We will soon find out. But for now, be patient.

“Patient?” What does that mean?” wondered Pamela, dashing for her lunch box.

The next day Mr. Smith, the florist, led Pamela and her mother through a long greenhouse filled with plants of all sizes. Suddenly Pamela noticed a strange, funny-looking one with no leaves at all, just a short, fat, and fuzzy-looking stem. Pamela touched it. “Ouch!” she said. “It pinched me.”

“That’s a cactus plant,” said Mr. Smith. “You felt its needles.”

Pamela looked closer. “Why does it have needles?” she asked.

“Why don’t you take it to school and find out?” Mr. Smith answered. “This cactus is called a saguaro (sah-WAH-row). That’s only one of the many amazing things about it. But you must be very patient”—

Sonoran Desert Landscape with a Saguaro, among other Desert Plants. Photo: Arun Toké.

“Oh, Mommy!” interrupted Pamela. “The kids won’t believe needles grow on plants.”

The next morning Pamela placed her cactus on the window ledge next to the bigger plants. “Can you see the needles?” Pamela asked her friend Bobby, holding a magnifying glass close to the plant.

“Wow!” said Bobby. “They look humongous.”

“You can touch them if you want,” said Pamela. “But be careful.”

“Ouch!” said Bobby. 

“I told you to be careful,” Pamela laughed.

Days went by but Pamela’s cactus did not seem to grow—no matter how much she watered it. “Oh, Mommy I’m afraid the boys and girls will start making fun of my little plant,” cried Pamela.

“The saguaro is growing. It’s just taking its time. It is not always in a big hurry like you,” said Mother. “When it does finally grow—something wonderful happens.”

“What is it, Mommy?” asked Pamela.

“Be patient, and you will, see?” she answered.

“Mommy, what does patient mean?”

“It means you must wait a long time for something to happen and you must not complain. The saguaro is waiting patiently for something amazing to happen!”

“O.K. Mommy,” answered Pamela, wiping her tears away.

Days went by and the cactus still did not seem to grow. But Pamela tried to be patient. “Are you growing?” she asked calmly.

One day Miss Jones showed the class a book about cactus plants. “My tiny cactus isn’t even in here,” said Pamela, as Miss Jones flipped the pages.

Then Miss Jones pointed to a giant cactus with huge, thick arms. “Now here’s a picture of what Pamela’s cactus will someday look like”—

Saguaros in the Saguaro National Park, Arizona. Photo: Arun N. Toké

“It looks like a giant fork!” interrupted Bobby.

Everyone laughed, except Pamela. “But Miss Jones, that can’t be a saguaro. It is so big!”

“Yes, it is very big, Pamela. It is 50 feet tall,” explained Miss Jones. She held up a ruler. “It takes 50 of these to reach its top. And it is a saguaro—just like your plant.”

“But why is that saguaro so big?” Pamela asked. “My saguaro has not grown at all. And it does not even have one teeny-tiny arm!”

Miss Jones smiled. “That’s because this 50-ft. saguaro is over 200 years old”—

“Two hundred years?” said Pamela. “Isn’t that a long, long time?”

“Yes, it is,” answered Miss Jones. “Your saguaro is only about six years old.”

“Six years old?” said Pamela. “I’m also six years old.”

Miss Jones smiled again. “Just think, boys and girls, it will take 25 years before Pamela’s saguaro is as tall as she is. But in 200 years it will be taller than our school. And can you believe this plant started from a seed as tiny as a period in this book?”

“A-maz-ing!” said Pamela. “That is why Mommy said the saguaro was patient. It takes time to grow. But when it grows, it grows!

“Indeed, it does, Pamela,” replied Miss Jones. “And it has lovely flowers that grow on the ends of its arms”—

“Miss Jones!” interrupted Bobby. “Can I make a hole in the roof so Pamela’s cactus can get really big?” Everyone had a good laugh.

That night Pamela had a wonderful dream…

While sitting on the window ledge, the cactus began to grow and grow. Before Pamela could count to ten, the cactus was as tall as she. Before she could count to 20, it was peeking through the hole Bobby Briggs had made in the roof. And it kept on growing—up past the big oak tree on the busy school playground.

Then the giant sprouted mighty arms that stretched out and out. They started to bend—straight up to the sky! Pretty flowers with white petals and golden centers began blooming on each tip.

By the time Pamela could count to 30, the giant began shedding its petals. They went dancing and swirling in the air like giant snowflakes. The children ran around and around, trying to catch them.

Not long after her dream ended, Pamela heard Mother’s knock. “Time to get up, Sweetheart.”

“Wow! What a dream!” said Pamela, tossing her covers. She knew it would take a long, long time for her cactus to grow big and strong. “I’ll just have to be patient—like my saguaro!” she decided, taking the time to tie her shoelaces before going down the stairs.

Saguaro along a Hiking Trail in the Superstition Mountains area of Arizona. Photo: Nathan Toké.

By Chuck Curatalo, New York. Mr. Curatalo retired after teaching for 33 years. He instilled an appreciation for other cultures of the world in his elementary grade students. He has been also interested in teaching children about the wonders of the Southwest. He is a collector of Hopi Kachina dolls and has toured many historic pueblos. He is a published author.

By Aadya Agarwal, grade 8, New Jersey.

They asked my mom, “What inspires you, Ms. Anne?”
Pat came her reply, “It sure is my frying pan.”
Her crisp reply left them confounded.
After all, she clearly left the Sun and the Moon grounded.

My mom was sure of her inspiration.
And this is what she offered as her explanation.

“Frying pan might look like a plain Jane tool.
But look! how, its emptiness itself makes it useful.
It tells me that nothing really belongs to you.
You are just a medium to pass things through.
You must clean yourself of the smallest residue.
So that you are ready to receive something new.”

“Frying pan has taught me to choose to be humble.
Go through and show up after every rough and tumble.
Seasoning through slow and high heating.
Strengthening through scratches and beating.
And not to suffer from any self-pity.
Be assured that you are where you are meant to be.”

Mom further said, “For me, frying pan is an unsung beauty,
That creates complex dishes through its simplicity,
And keeps my family fed by doing its duty.”

By Aadya Agarwal, grade 8, Princeton Day School, Princeton, New Jersey.