Illuminating Growth: The Poetics of Light in the Plant World
Exploring Light as a Metaphor, Catalyst, and Silent Collaborator in the Journey of Growth
Introduction: The Invitation of Light
As winter approaches, I watch the daylight shrink, slipping away minute by minute. The low sun casts long shadows, and my flat fills with a softer, more fleeting light. I notice my plants — leaves stretching, stems leaning — all gasping for that precious illumination. One by one, I find myself gently moving them closer to the windows, as if offering them a lifeline, a chance to drink in what remains of the sun’s warmth.
In this simple act, I feel a deep kinship with them. We are all reaching, in our own ways, for the light we need to grow. My plants’ quiet yearning reflects my own — for clarity, for energy, for inspiration. Light becomes more than just a physical necessity; it transforms into a shared experience of persistence, a collaboration between life and its essential nourishment.
In each tender shoot that bends toward the sun, there exists an unspoken poem of resilience, transformation, and connection. Just as plants harness light to create life through photosynthesis, we, too, absorb light — sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically — as inspiration, as energy, as a catalyst for growth. As Emanuele Coccia observes in The Life of Plants, plants are “metaphysicians of mixture,” constantly blending and transforming the elements around them. Light becomes not just an external force but an intimate guide, illuminating the pathways of creation, memory, and ritual.
What if we could embody this relationship with light in our own lives and creative practices? What lessons could we learn from the way plants interact with light — how they seek it, respond to it, and, when necessary, adapt to its absence?
This exploration of light is an exploration of the poetry of growing. It invites us to see light not only as something that fuels life but as a force that shapes stories, rituals, and the delicate dance of being alive.
Chlorophyll’s Poetry – The Art of Turning Light into Life
Photosynthesis is often described in scientific terms, but to me, it feels like pure alchemy. Plants take the intangible — light — and transform it into sustenance and life. Within their green cells, chlorophyll performs a daily ritual, capturing photons and converting them into energy. Each leaf becomes a poem, written by the sun and interpreted by the plant, telling a story of transformation and resilience.
This process is a beautiful metaphor for human creativity and growth. Just as plants turn light into nourishment, I believe we, too, have the capacity to turn inspiration into something tangible. Light, in all its forms — a flash of insight, a moment of clarity, or a literal ray of sun — can be a catalyst for transformation. Our minds, hearts, and bodies are the vessels that perform this invisible alchemy.
In my artistic practice, I often think of sound as a form of light. When I connect plants to biodata sonification devices, their bioelectric rhythms are converted into sound, revealing hidden patterns of life. The plants "sing" their relationship to light, offering me — and others — a chance to listen to growth itself. This act of translation — from light to plant to sound — feels like a reflection of the poetic nature of photosynthesis. It encourages me to pay attention to the unseen processes that sustain us and to appreciate the delicate, often invisible, connections between life forms.
Robin Wall Kimmerer writes in Braiding Sweetgrass, that tending to plants can be a reciprocal act, a ritual of gratitude and care. In these moments, I feel that same reciprocity — giving attention and receiving inspiration in return.
I wonder how we might approach our own creative processes with this same reverence for light. What if each idea, each spark of inspiration, was like a photon? How might we nourish and cultivate these sparks, turning them into something that feeds our souls and the world around us?
Like plants, we are capable of remarkable transformations when we honor the light that reaches us. In my creative and spiritual practices, I try to harness this light — to pause, absorb, and allow it to guide my growth.
Light as Memory — The Timeless Growth of Trees
In the rings of a tree, light becomes memory. Each year, trees record the story of their growth, embedding traces of sunlight, drought, storms, and abundance within their bodies. These concentric circles are more than lines of wood — they are diaries, silent testimonies to the passage of time and the conditions of life.
A thick ring speaks of a season of plentiful light and nourishment. A thin ring whispers of struggle, of seeking light that was fleeting or obscured. To me, this process of recording light is a poetic reminder that growth isn’t always visible in the moment, but becomes clear when I look back.
I find deep resonance in this idea of memory. My artistic work — my performances, installations, and sound projects — often explores themes of environmental memory and collective experience. Trees remind me that growth is not linear or constant; it responds to what is available, to care, to light. Could each project I create be like a ring — a trace of the light I absorbed at that point in time?
Just like trees, I hold memories of light in my body and mind. The warmth of certain days, the golden hue of an afternoon, or the sharp clarity of winter light — all these moments shape my perceptions and creative expressions. Even when growth is slow or obscured, I trust that these experiences are layering themselves within me, ready to emerge when the time is right.
As Annie Dillard reflects in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, “Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery.” Growth, like memory, often reveals itself only after layers have been built, each one influenced by light and shadow alike.
I am learning to embrace these cycles of light and shadow. Sometimes my growth bursts forth with energy and brilliance; at other times, it retreats into quiet reflection. Both are valuable. Both are part of the story. Like a tree, I am always growing, even when that growth is hidden beneath the surface.
This understanding helps me honor the unseen work that happens in moments of stillness or struggle. Just as trees patiently add to their rings, I, too, am building a record of light — an archive of creativity, memory, and experience that unfolds over time.
The Poetry of Shadows – Growth in Hidden Places
Where there is light, there are shadows. In the dappled understory of forests, some plants thrive not in full sunlight, but in the soft, filtered glow that passes through leaves and branches. These shadow-dwellers find their rhythm in spaces where light and darkness meet. Their growth is a quiet poem — one of patience, resilience, and the wisdom to know when to wait.
I see this dance between light and shadow mirrored in my own work and life. In my performance art and sound-based projects, shadows play a pivotal role. They shape perception, conceal and reveal, create intimacy, and heighten the senses. The dim glow of a gallery space, the flicker of a candle, or the soft wash of projection light invites the audience to lean in, to become more attuned to subtleties. Shadows encourage contemplation — a pause between actions, a breath between notes.
These shadowed spaces are not voids; they are fertile grounds for hidden growth. Just as seeds germinate in the darkness of the soil before sprouting toward the light, my ideas often develop in quiet, unseen moments. These are the times of retreat, introspection, and stillness — moments that are easy to dismiss, yet essential to my creative process.
I’ve come to appreciate that growth doesn’t always happen in full view of the sun. Sometimes it unfolds slowly in shaded places, where patience and trust are required. The absence of light does not mean the absence of progress; it means transformation is happening beneath the surface, waiting for the right time to emerge.
Shadows have their own kind of beauty. They invite me to slow down, to listen more deeply, and to notice what lies just beyond the visible. In those shadowed moments, I discover new depths, unexpected connections, and a quieter kind of growth. By embracing these spaces, I honor the full spectrum of my journey — the visible and the invisible, the bright and the dim.
Shadows teach me to trust the unseen work within me and around me. They remind me that every pause, every moment of uncertainty, is part of the journey toward the light. In these quiet, hidden places, I am still growing, still reaching — even if the world cannot see it yet.
Light and Ritual – Inviting Growth into Our Practices
Light has always been part of human ritual. From ancient sun-worship ceremonies to the simple act of lighting a candle in quiet contemplation, we have long understood light as a symbol of transformation, guidance, and hope. For plants, light is a biological necessity; for me, it is often a spiritual and creative one. I’ve found that bringing light into my rituals helps me stay connected to growth — both my own and the world’s.
In my sound healing practice, I see the connection between light and sound as deeply intertwined. When I connect plants to biodata sonification devices, the morning light changes their bioelectric rhythms. The melodies that emerge during these early hours feel like the plants’ way of singing their gratitude for the sun. Recording these soundscapes at sunrise creates a ritual of listening — a way to honor the meeting of light and life, sound and growth.
I also find light-infused rituals in the simple act of making tea. In the quiet of the morning, I brew herbs like mugwort or sage — plants that have soaked in sunlight, now releasing their essence into the steam. As I sip, I reflect on the energy of the day ahead. This practice of mindful tea drinking roots me in the present, a moment where I absorb light’s warmth and clarity, both literally and symbolically.
In my performances and installations, light becomes a collaborator. I choreograph light and shadow to guide the audience’s experience, creating spaces where perception shifts, where intimacy and reflection are invited. A beam of light cutting through darkness, the flicker of a projection, or the subtle glow of a candle — these elements turn the performance into a living ritual, one that invites contemplation and transformation.
By weaving light into my daily practices, I feel more attuned to the cycles of growth and renewal. Whether it’s through sound, tea, or art, these rituals remind me to pause, to absorb, and to allow light to guide my process. They anchor me in the rhythm of life itself — a rhythm that begins each day with the invitation of light.
Conclusion: Growing Toward the Light
As I watch my plants reach for the dwindling winter light, I am reminded that growth is an ongoing dance — one of persistence, adaptation, and trust. They don’t rush; they lean gently, patiently, toward what sustains them. In their quiet movement, I see a reflection of my own journey. Just like them, I am reaching for clarity, for inspiration, for the light I need to grow.
Light, for me, is more than just a physical presence. It is a metaphor, a guide, a collaborator. Sometimes it bursts forth in moments of brilliance; other times it filters through shadows, asking me to pause, to reflect, and to trust the unseen work that is taking place. Each phase — whether bright or dim — becomes part of my story, my growth.
In my art, my rituals, and my explorations with sound, I strive to honor this relationship with light. When I listen to plants through biodata sonification, I hear their response to light — a hidden symphony of life. When I sip tea infused with sun-soaked herbs, I take in a quiet essence of light. And when I shape performances with beams and shadows, I invite others into a space of reflection and transformation.
This journey — the poetry of growing — reminds me that I am not separate from nature but deeply intertwined with it🌱. By turning toward light, I honor the life it nurtures, the memories it shapes, and the rituals it inspires. I remember that growth is a collaboration, a dance with the forces around and within me.
So, I keep leaning toward the light✨. I embrace the brilliance and the shadows, the seen and the unseen. And as I grow, I hope to reflect that light back into the world — sharing my growth, my insights, and my creative expressions with those around me.
Closing Note 🌱✨
I invite you to pause and reflect: How does light guide your own journey of growth? What rituals, practices, or creative processes help you connect with this universal rhythm? Share your thoughts, stories, or plant-inspired reflections in the comments. Let’s continue illuminating this path together✨.
References 📚🌿✨:
Emanuele Coccia, The Life of Plants: A Metaphysics of Mixture. Translated by Dylan J. Montanari. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2018.
Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2013.
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2007 (Original work published 1974).