Fifth Journey Day 81: The Language of Windless Trees

Date: July 28, 2025
Location: Dushanbe, Tajikistan

This afternoon, I sat in Rudaki Park under one of the tall sycamore trees that lean slightly toward the fountain. The fountain wasn't running, but the bowl was damp in some places, and pigeons were gathered along its edge like a still-life that kept rearranging itself. The shade was deep and complete — it covered you completely. I didn't move for a while.

A boy walked past, eating bread from a torn plastic bag. His shirt was oversized and faded blue. Two women in patterned dresses followed him, holding hands. No one seemed to be in a hurry. Even the dogs lay with their legs splayed and noses pointed at the warm stone. It felt like the whole park was breathing slowly.

I didn't draw. I kept my hands still, resting on my lap, with my fingers lightly touching. What I remember most was the way the breeze came and went. It wasn't often, but when it did, it swept gently across the leaves. It seemed to pull a different silence through the air. One that wasn't empty, just quieter than language.

I watched the shadow of a pigeon move across a low bench. It looked like the movement of a hand across a page. Maybe tomorrow I'll sketch that — not the bird, not the bench, but the soft interruption of one shadow moving across another.

There's something about being in a city where I don't understand the words or know the systems or routines. It makes me see things more clearly. It's not a big change — just cleaner, simpler. It's more straightforward. Today, I didn't need anything to happen. I just needed to be somewhere where things were already happening, and I could sit beside them quietly.