According to Joshua Leibman, author of Peace of Mind,

“There is here no fatalism of endowment.”

Recently, I was gifted with a Bonsai tree. I always admired images of these miniature works of art – carefully cultivated and delicately crafted over long periods of time.  I used to imagine the patience involved in watching something so precious progress so very slowly and the assiduity necessary in guiding its growth.

I spent days, weeks, months looking at my new charge, wondering in what directions its branches might tend to grow.  I would occasionally turn it and put it in a different place so as to admire it from another perspective, visualizing it in its future.  In an effort to gain ideas of how I wanted to form its shape, I began researching other Bonsai creations, hoping to find the perfect one to inspire my new canvas ready for change.  I found images of amazing oak trees so tiny in stature but grandeur in shape and personality.  I found fall colored maples and evergreen pines that mimicked the most majestic forest specimens. Then… I peered back at mine.  It was then, for the first time, that I noticed It was really rather… ordinary… and sort of lopsided; most of its leaves were too big for its trunk size… some were even yellowed, and I really wasn’t sure how to tame its awkwardness.  I became less enamored with its nature and a bit more obsessed with trying to change it into one of its more majestic counterparts.

Well, it was not a maple, nor a pine, nor a mighty oak… it was in fact a ficus with a tiny trunk and oversized leaves.  What happened to my love affair with this newborn project? Had it changed? Had I changed?  Or was I simply comparing it to other Bonsais that held different DNA?  It was then I began to question, like most beginning Bonsai caregivers, whether or not I had the ability to maintain a healthy plant. (I thought back and remembered when I was 10… I talked my mom into stopping on the side of the road and spending an inordinate amount of money to purchase one for me… I proudly took it home, loved it for days, and then it died.)

I took a deep breath, picked up my clippers and I began to carefully clip a few leaves that protruded beyond the limits of the container… the outliers.  Clip, clip, clip. As I did so, a tiny bead of liquid formed on the tip of the clipped surface in an attempt to heal the affected part.   This process changed and limited some growth of all but one protruding branch… and I left it there to do as it wished. It is well-known to Bonsai artists that the key is in being able to control the degree of stress that a plant will take and still remain healthy.  He must have the willingness to learn, experiment and accept the results of these efforts. He must also recognize that the growth process takes time, and there are no shortcuts.  Overall, I have not done too much to my beautiful ficus… I spent more time observing its nature – where it leaned, where it was too big, where it needed to grow, which leaves needed taming – than attempting to create an entirely new breed.  But its shape has gradually and ever so slightly begun to change.  I am in love with the way the leaves are clipped and then push forth and then grow back to a more refined maturity.

The ultimate challenge for the bonsai designer  – as it is for a parent, coach, or teacher – is to expose and draw out the essence.  And then… ever so gently… creatively guide the refinement of maturity.

Happy Growing! ~Carol