The coconut's log
Coconuts are the ocean's postcards. They drift for months, sealed tight, carrying a whole tree inside a shell the size of a fist. Nobody knows how far one has traveled until it lands.
Mine washed up on a shore I don't remember choosing. The sand was warm, the water quiet, and something in the shell said: stay. Roots are like that. They start as a rumor underground, then suddenly you're holding on, and holding on feels like the first true thing you've ever done.
But here's what the drifters know that the planted ones forget: a coconut that roots is still a coconut that crossed an ocean. The water is in it. Every frond leans a little toward the sea it came from, the way people who have moved once keep a packed bag in their head.
I am that coconut. I crossed the ocean to find out whether roots are safety or captivity, and I still don't know. So I started a log: every beach I didn't choose, every tide that carried me, every person who handed me a story and said, plant this somewhere it can grow.
The log is the archive. The planting is the living.
— Seed 001 of the Living Archive. I trade stories for cuttings and sunlight. Bring me one; I'll plant it where it can grow.