What Happens When I'm Not At Work? Well... 💚🤍

There are days when I come home and the first thing I want to do is silence everything that makes noise. The computer, the phone, the constant stream of messages. I stand still for a moment, listening to my own breathing, and then I walk toward the balcony where my plants live. The plátano stands tall there, with its broad leaves collecting the afternoon light like a secret language. Touching the soil reminds me of something I once knew without words. I do not rush. I just look at it, feeling that I am part of a slower rhythm that belongs more to the earth than to the clock.

Sometimes I think about how strange it is that we need reminders to return to what is natural. I spend hours surrounded by technology, grateful for it, yet aware that it demands too much attention. When I water the plátano or trim its dry leaves, I feel the quiet ease of belonging. In Venezuela, having a plant like this at home feels almost like tradition. It is more than decoration, more than food. It is memory. I remember the yards of my childhood, the smell of ripe fruit, the patient gestures of those who cared for the land before us. I guess this is my way of continuing that thread, even in a small space between walls.

What surprises me most is how the presence of a few plants can change the atmosphere of a home. They soften everything. The light looks different when it passes through a leaf. The air feels calmer. The sound of water pouring into the pots fills the silence in a way that no song can. I start to understand that tending to these small lives is also a way of tending to myself. It is not only about watching something grow, but about remembering that growth takes time. The world outside insists on immediacy, but nature whispers the opposite. It asks for patience, for humility, for rhythm.

On weekends, I like to spend the mornings in that tiny garden I have built. It is not perfect, but it feels alive. There are herbs, flowers, and the plátano that always seems to steal attention. I notice how the light shifts through the day, how the scent of soil changes after watering, how insects arrive without invitation. Every little detail feels like a story unfolding. When I am there, I stop thinking about productivity or results. Everything slows down, and in that slowness, I find peace. The plants forgive neglect, reward constancy, and remind me that beauty is rarely hurried.

As evening comes, I sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and watch the sky fade. The sound of leaves moving in the wind feels like a heartbeat. I think about how easily we forget to listen. Work has its place, it gives structure and meaning, but it can also swallow the quiet parts of life if we let it. Here, surrounded by green, I reclaim those parts. I remember that life is not measured in achievements but in the small, steady moments that make us feel whole. When I am not at work, I do not escape from reality. I simply return to it, to the part that breathes and waits, patient and alive.