According to Joshua Leibman, author of Peace of Mind,
"There is here no fatalism of endowment."
Recently, I was gifted with my second bonsai tree. For years, I continued to admire images of these miniature works of art, carefully cultivated and delicately crafted over long periods of time. I imagined the patience involved in observing something so precious progress so very slowly and the assiduity necessary in guiding its growth.
Careful not to kill this one as I did with my first bonsai experiment, I spent days, weeks, and 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 under varied light, so as to admire it from another perspective and visualize it in its distant 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 yet grandeur in shape and personality. I found examples of fall colored maples, and orderly, 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. 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.
Time passed and I realized that it was not a maple, nor a pine, nor a mighty oak… it was, in fact, a ficus with a rather plain and simple trunk with oversized leaves. What had 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 to my first bonsai experiment. I was eight years old on a drive to Houston Texas. I begged my mom to stop to view these unusual specimens for sale on the roadside. Although she must have spent more of our family budget than was reasonable at the time, she supported my desire to care for and nurture this tiny life. I proudly took it home, loved it for days, and then, it died.
With that memory hanging over me, 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 of my little project. Clip. Clip. Clip. As I did so, a tiny bead of white liquid formed on the tip of the clipped surface as a response to heal the affected part. This process directionally altered as well as limited some growth of all but one protruding branch. I left it there to do as it wished. It is well-known, to practiced bonsai artists, that the key to success is in being able to control the degree of stress that a plant will take as it is being manipulated and yet still remain healthy. The caretaker 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.
Years have passed. I have modified less of my beautiful ficus than I originally assumed necessary. I spend more time observing its nature – the direction it leans, the spaces that are too big, parts that need to grow, leaves that need taming – rather than attempting to create an entirely new breed. But its shape has gradually and ever so slightly transformed. I am in love with the way its clipped branches push forth in new ways and then grow leaves in a more refined maturity.
It is the ultimate challenge for a bonsai designer to expose the essence of the tree and to draw out what is within it, without imposing too much change or stress, and then ever so gently, guide and refine its natural beauty.
This same challenge is presented to any one gifted with the responsibility to grow and develop a human being. As parents, teachers, coaches and mentors, we are each charged with guiding, supporting, and trimming the excess, careful not to stunt the growth that nature endowed within each individual.
Just as the bonsai owner learns to appreciate his co-creative role in developing the slow growing beauty in a living bonsai, educators must learn the important impact we have in shaping a student over time. Like the bead of liquid on the end of a clipped stem, introducing or redirecting thoughts in the mind can stimulate new directions of growth, or close off other possible neural pathways. Indeed, there is no fatalism in endowment, but we can and must aid in nurturing its transformation.
Happy Growing! ~Carol