The Art of Everything
written by: Tahira Y.
Some days, when the sun rises, I remember that the moon has risen on the other side of the globe. Like the worlds that have shaped me, my identity is a landscape of contradictions. I am the child of concrete streets and bikes, of dust and juniper trees. A child of creativity and logic, of rebellion and tradition; not opposing forces, rather an intricate map of who I am. In the sunlight of a suburban alley, Mama taught me to ride a bike. But in the moonlight of the high desert, she taught me to pitch a tent and start a fire. I discovered a new version of myself; the paved streets of my house, and the juniper trees of the high desert were both, unanimously, my home. As two halves of a whole come together, seemingly opposite worlds taught me to see opposites not as enemies, but as two dancers in an intricate dance of identity.
When I was four, my grandmother sewed the head, arms, and legs of a teddy bear onto a glass jar. In retrospect, that was a horrifying thing for her to do. But as I went around my neighborhood, beaches, parks, and hikes, collecting rocks and shells to feed to him, I was not horrified by the wonders I found. I fed my teddy the fruits of the Earth, and he grew with me. His stomach was full of shining treasures created by Mother Nature, the same treasures that sustain me. Today, I feed him the same, and our Earth has sustained him for all those years.
That same year, my mother took me on a hike. While on our way back, I came across a baby bird, kicked to the side of the path. Crouching down, I went to pick him up, but my mother stopped me. Mother birds can smell humans on their babies, she had told me. I argued with her, begging her to bring it back to our home so I can raise it. She prompted me with questions: where will it live, what will it eat, and when will you take care of it? I rushed to justify myself; we can buy him a cage, I will feed him worms, and I will take care of him every day, I will not even go to school. She crouched down to me and gestured out to the forest. This is an ecosystem, she told me, and we cannot change it. The ecosystem must flourish on its own. She told me that if I were to save that bird, a snake would lose its dinner. In my mind, that was still the death of a bird. But if I saved it, it was the death of a snake. Mother Nature shows us her powers in mysterious ways that we interpret to the best of our abilities, but meddling in her affairs was not an option. It was then that I learned that all things must die.
When I walk into a grocery store, and a cold blast of air hits my face, I am reminded of the times when I would pick fruit with my grandmother. Figs, pomegranates, and tangerines, their juice dripping onto my small hands and sticking to me for hours. I think of myself now, shopping for groceries. The simplicity of my old life is gone, replaced with cold transactions and frustration, solitude in a grey, linoleum box. The leaves of the trees no longer brush my hands, no strong, tanned arms lift me to the sweetest fruits which I sink my teeth into before my feet hit the ground, but instead, I sigh quietly at the prices of things I cannot afford, things I cannot have.
There is a moment where the world slows. A moment where your breath is heavy, your vision blurs, and you feel underwater. Voices fall on deaf ears; the sound of blood rushing in and out of your pounding heart is overwhelming. The birds are silent, the last blast rings out, and the trees sway gently from the force. This is the moment where you lose.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This piece gathers the moments of city life and indigenous worlds that shaped my sense of identity, even in contradiction. I write to capture the way memory lingers: not as a perfect record, but as a collage of the worlds that raised me.
- The Art of Everything - February 18, 2026
