The Fence

This is my backyard fence. Just inside the gate. I walk past it most days without really seeing it.

It’s not the kind of thing you photograph — at least not on purpose. The wood is aging, unremarkable. A uniform wall of vertical boards, like a congregation of bored sentries. It doesn’t sag. It doesn’t shine. It just holds the line between here and there. Between me and my neighbor. Between what I tend to and what I don’t.

That shoot didn’t ask if the space was available. It didn’t wait for good weather. It just reached. As if it had the right.

But then this happened.

A single green shoot. A defiant little stem, pushing its way out from the soil at the base of the fence. Alive in a way the fence is not. Almost fluorescent in contrast to the weathered wood and stone. Small, yes — but unmistakably awake.

And so I stopped. Camera in hand, probably on my way to do something else. I don’t remember what. But this little act of persistence held me long enough to frame it.

We talk a lot about resilience like it’s something loud. Something chest-pounding. But more often, it’s this: quiet, steady, unnoticed by most. A decision made in the dark — to push upward, to reach for light, not because it’s safe but because it’s necessary.

That shoot didn’t ask if the space was available. It didn’t wait for good weather. It just reached. As if it had the right.

And maybe that’s what struck me: it did.

I’ve lived in this house for three years now. Some parts of it have changed; some haven’t. I’ve changed. I’ve let go of things, carried others longer than I should. I’ve built and rebuilt routines — for work, for health, for purpose. But I don’t think I’ve ever looked at this fence and thought, there’s a story here.

Until the story showed itself.

There’s something about contrast that forces attention. Black and white, shadow and light, stillness and movement. In a photo, contrast isn’t just visual — it’s emotional. It’s what gives an image its gravity. And this one had it. A wall of worn texture interrupted by one impossible green decision.

We’re not supposed to take photos like this. Not if we want clicks. But I didn’t take it for clicks. I took it for me. As proof that even a familiar fence — something I’d long since stopped noticing — could still surprise me. Could still offer something.

Maybe that’s what this whole project is about. Noticing the things that don’t beg to be seen. The ones that whisper instead of shout.

The fence hasn’t changed. But I have. And now that green shoot is part of the story — a footnote in the dirt, sure, but also a flare in the quiet.

A reminder that life keeps trying. Even here. Even now.

What boundary in your life actually helps you breathe easier?

— Lawrence

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