I grew up in a land where the summers were too hot, storms grew violent and forest fires raged. The adults blamed the smoke and destruction, on young lovers; throwing their flaming cigarettes out of car windows, while they kissed feverishly, in an attempt to forget about the world. 

Before you knew it, a whole pine forest had lit up and a swarm of helicopters buzzed overhead. 

I lived in a town outside of Barcelona. Cactuses and cherry trees grew like weeds in our back garden. Every summer when the wind caressed the leaves and the cherries grew swollen, I would climb to the very top of the tree and squint at the sun. Bleeding deep red across the powder blue sky. I’d sit for hours, watching, as the sky turned pink in the evening. 

Then one spring, they ripped off all the branches – so they could sell the cherries at the market. And spring came again and again, but the cherry trees did not bloom. I waited patiently… but I already knew the trees had died of sadness. 

I remember this moment so clearly… I can still reach out and taste it. The child inside me who loved playing died that spring. I have spent years trying to relearn how to play. Slowly, through love and hard work, I feel myself coming back to that place. A world where I can play and create instinctively.