I wrote a post a few months ago about my affection for John Muir and I’m learning that when I’m disconcerted about something, even this less-than-outdoorsy girl needs to get her feet on the ground, in nature, to work out heartaches.
Yesterday I returned to a favorite garden – this time to visit the meditation area and Japanese gardens. When hubster and I were there recently we didn’t get to all of the beloved nooks and crannies, so I took a solo sojourn.
Part of the tug to return came from the a-ha that we’d missed a beloved section of the garden with the bonsai trees. Whoops. Not sure how we did that we’re big meanderers and don’t follow a map.
On a rainy weekday morning, I suspected the bonsai area would be quiet and I looked forward to ambling about, maybe meditating on one of the nearby benches.
Over the years I’ve admired the tender care required to lovingly nurture each delicate, miniature tree. It’s a treat to watch the experts examine and carefully tend to each specimen. Living things need all the love we can muster, and these tiny trees exemplify the outcome if care is offered in a cautious, contemplative way. No big shears. More consideration, treating each unique tree as a gift. A singular treasure.
One tree in particular called to me yesterday, enrobed in its very own light as a streak of sunshine invaded the overcast, lighting up its delicate branches. I remember you, I thought. The “mama and a baby” tree. Unique in the garden of bonsai delights:
Rarely do I read the details affixed to each tree’s display but my eyes were drawn to the little plaques for this specimen – declaring the “Ulmus minor” (elm) tree to be 80-90 years old and cultivated in the “mother-daughter” style. Together forever, I thought. Roots and limbs, branches and buds.
In that moment, I knew why the bonsai garden had called to me, beckoning my heart to return. A dear friend lost her young adult daughter recently and her pain consumes my thoughts. I wish I knew how to provide comfort. I cannot. I can only bear witness to the tragedy of losing a talented, beautiful girl who, by my measuring stick, had at least 2/3 of her life left to live. At just 32 years old her light was luminous, foretelling years of opportunity and adventure. Where did that light go? I hear my friend’s silent wails as she asks, How can it be gone?
I have no wisdom but lie awake wondering about the adventures and accomplishments that awaited this bright light had she lived more than a 1/3 of her journey. So much unspent potential…a loss that defies understanding.
As I sat near mother and daughter elm, bonsai-style, I imagined the everlasting connection that exists between my friend and her daughter. Love never fades.
Vicki ❤
First photo courtesy of Pexels. Other photos my own.
Victoria Ponders 
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