The Constellations That Raised Me

I used to think influence
arrived loudly—
like thunder announcing rain,
like a flag planted on a hill
with a name etched in stone.

But now, when I sit quietly
and ask myself
who shaped me most,
the answers come differently—
soft as moss,
slow as continental drift,
patient as stars that do not rush
even when centuries are watching.

The first influences were unnamed.
They were hands before they were people.
Warmth before language.
The gravity that kept me from floating away
when I did not yet know
how heavy a body could feel.

Someone showed me
that the world could be trusted—
not by explaining it,
but by holding my trembling
until it forgot how to shake.
That kind of influence
never asks for credit.
It becomes your bones.

I was influenced by silence.
Not the awkward kind,
but the fertile hush of early mornings
when the sky is still deciding its color.
Those hours taught me
that not everything meaningful speaks,
that some truths prefer
to breathe quietly beside you
like sleeping animals.

I was influenced by kitchens.
By the steady alchemy
of raw things becoming edible,
by the way hunger
could be met with patience
and a pinch of intuition.
I learned that care
does not always look poetic—
sometimes it looks like chopping,
waiting, cleaning up afterward,
loving without applause.

Books arrived later,
and they were earthquakes.
They split the ground I stood on
and showed me
there were entire civilizations
under my feet.
I was influenced by voices
that had been dead for centuries
yet somehow knew
exactly what I was afraid of.

They taught me
that loneliness has a long lineage,
that doubt is a shared inheritance,
that wondering why
is one of the oldest human rituals.
Through them, I learned
I was not original in my confusion—
and that this was a relief.

I was influenced by people
who never meant to teach me anything.
The stranger who smiled
when my day felt unlivable.
The one who broke a promise
and taught me about fracture.
The friend who stayed
when leaving would have been easier.
The one who left
and taught me about absence.

Some influences arrive
as wounds.
Not to harm,
but to open.
Pain has a curriculum of its own—
harsh, unsparing,
yet precise.
It carves space
where empathy can later live.

Nature influenced me
without introduction.
Rivers showed me
how to keep moving
without losing myself.
Trees taught me
that growth is mostly invisible,
that rings accumulate quietly
year after year
until one day
someone leans against you
and feels your strength.

The night sky influenced me most
when I felt smallest.
Under it, my worries lost their sharpness.
Stars did not dismiss my problems,
but they placed them
in a wider sentence.
I learned that insignificance
can be comforting—
that I do not have to matter
to the universe
to matter here.

The moon influenced me
with its borrowed light.
It showed me
that reflection is not weakness,
that you can shine
by honoring another source.
That even in phases of thinning,
you remain whole
in ways not immediately visible.

I was influenced by failure—
not the dramatic kind,
but the quiet accumulation
of almosts and not-quites.
They taught me humility,
taught me how to sit with myself
when applause was absent.
They introduced me
to the discipline of beginning again
without guarantees.

Time influenced me relentlessly.
It sanded down certainty,
blurred rigid opinions,
taught me that becoming
is an unfinished verb.
What I once defended fiercely
I now hold gently.
What I once dismissed
I now approach with curiosity.
Time is a teacher
who never stops assigning homework.

I was influenced by listening—
truly listening—
the kind that suspends rebuttal,
that lets another person
rearrange the furniture of your mind.
From listening, I learned
that truth is rarely singular,
that perspectives orbit one another
like planets,
each carrying its own gravity.

Art influenced me
by naming emotions
I could not articulate.
Music held me
when words fell apart.
Poems became mirrors
that did not flinch.
Through art, I learned
that beauty can coexist with sorrow,
that brokenness does not disqualify meaning.

I was influenced by questions
that never found answers.
They kept me porous.
They protected me
from the arrogance of conclusion.
Some questions are not doors to be opened
but windows to be lived beside—
letting light change
as the day passes.

And somewhere along the way,
I realized
the biggest influences in my life
were not monuments
but movements.
Not idols,
but invitations.
Not certainties,
but companions on the path—
human, elemental, cosmic.

They shaped me
the way wind shapes stone:
not by force,
but by persistence.
By returning again and again
until resistance softened
into understanding.

Now, when I look inward,
I see a constellation—
not a single star responsible for the light,
but many,
some visible,
some long extinguished,
still influencing the pattern I carry.

I walk with them inside me:
the hands,
the silences,
the books,
the wounds,
the rivers,
the questions,
the night sky.

And I understand at last—
influence is not about control.
It is about resonance.
About what stays with you
after the voice has faded,
after the season has passed,
after the sky has turned
and turned again.

These are the forces
that made me who I am—
not by telling me who to be,
but by teaching me
how to listen
to the quiet unfolding
of my own becoming.