I wonder if a seedling trembles a little as it departs its comfortable and impenetrable shell. I wonder if, as it unfurls its tendrils into the sunlight, it realises how exposed and frail it is. Does it understand the danger of a downpour, or a harsh summer day, or the many bugs circling its leaves every day?
Does it understand how fragile it is, as it continues to stretch gently up to the sky? Or is it driven simply by the inborn desire to grow no matter what the cost, the desire to become what it is destined to be.
And when it finally reaches its full potential, are its blooms its celebration?