“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Within the sliver of silence between the radio host's words a clip from Maurice's scissors echoed through his kitchen. He exhaled and smiled. Even after a decade and change, each cut held such tension, such relief. Soft brush strokes rolled from the stereo as the next song strummed and Maurice glowed, basking beside Trevor, his bonsai tree.
Maurice paused, and walked around the plant as the morning light shifted. He took time to admire the subtle changes, and nuances that came with each day of his friend's ageing. It wasn't out of obsessive maintenance, quite the opposite. He cherished the being, the same way he adored sunsets. No matter whether there was cloud coverage or not, Maurice learned to appreciate the shifting of shades, the power of lighting. Each detail of Trevor's textured bark, each individual pine was captivating. Despite the lethargic pace of Trevor's growth, each day was a lesson in impermanence, which Maurice tackled with grateful pausing.
His stiff fingers unwound a roll of copper wire he'd used to help Trevor extend a new reaching branch. The two had come to an agreement years before, in their first months together, when, in a stretch of arrogance, Maurice had been more forceful, and demanding, attempting to mold the small tree to his whims. Trevor fought and contorted against the bindings until, in a moment of clarity, Maurice changed his efforts to support rather than push. Over the next few months his original thoughts for how he was going to shape his bonsai were released. Instead he let his friend decide on the course of his own stature, and focused on care, and curating the soil.
Down below, the scene and setting around the trunk stayed in a state of continual evolution. New pots had come and gone, favourites became seasonal. Their repotting rituals, gentle, and caring, were days that both looked forward to over the course of the year. On his strolls and hikes, Maurice would collect stones, and pebbles to place around his friend's base. He even would go so far as to transplant small patches of grass and moss. At times small models or toys would live amongst the pot. Fences, swing sets, and benches he'd craft by hand, whittling away with a magnifying glass, sitting beside his friend over their evenings as they listened to the radio. Small trinkets his grandchildren had extracted from gum ball machines would come and go, tokens of their love he shared with his friend. The only piece of permanence was a small amount of mycelium he'd planted encouraging a micro mycorrhizal network for Trevor.
As the little giant grew so did their friendship. Maurice approached Trevor's changes with curiosity, and championed, clipped, and trimmed where he understood to, collaborating with the greater vision. His perspective regarding Trevor's aesthetics moved from a goal, to growing awe. The shifts had been enormous, and rippled to other aspects of his life. His relationships with his children changed, he found more patience for the strangers he interacted with, he appreciated bad weather.
It gave Maurice such pleasure to see his little friend flourish. It wasn't out of pride or hubris, from the praise the small tree received from company. There was a deep sense of joy knowing his care and efforts were received, and appreciated.
In the beginning, little Trevor had felt like an unnecessary burden. Old age had taken everything from sweet Maurice. Cancer had stolen his wife. Retirement had robbed him of his routine years before. His children had long since grown and moved. Finally, his best friend, Oliver, the family dog, passed. The plant was a pitiful attempt from his daughter to fill the new void in his life. As if a small needy tree could replace an animal.
Clean oxygen rushed as he inhaled, his blinking eyelashes magnified behind his glasses as he crooked, and craned around the plant. His touch was careful, his fingers gentle. The bond he'd made with Trevor had more similarities with his relationship with Oliver than differences.
He tended to Trevor, and in turn, Trevor took care of him. Where Oliver's walks gave exercise, and reprieve, nurturing Trevor brought meditation, and calm. The regular care each needed helped give the day structure. At this stage of Maurice's life being able to tend for another from the comfort of his stool was a blessing. Sweet Trevor provided more than companionship, he gave Maurice purpose. What had started as reluctance had grown to routine, blossomed to joy.
While their verbal communication was one-side, the little tree and Maurice managed to maintain a rich exchange between themselves. They spoke in the morning, salutations, and warm wishes. Trev's silent yet boisterous presence was always answered with sweet, hushed affirmations. The radio was a constant. The two listened to a gentle community jazz station which Maurice donated to. The DJ’s voices were as calm and soothing as the records they played. The advertisements were minimal, and the ambience soothed both the plant and the elderly man. Maurice was convinced that Trevor was happier with the music, the colours of his foliage richer, his bark stronger.
Like Trevor's growth their conversations were slow. Some answers to questions would come within weeks, others in days. The two danced against the finite clock with infinite patience for one another. Unfazed by the pacing, honoured instead, by the attention.
Throughout his day he'd keep an eye on his little man. Shifting him to and from windows in accordance to the seasons, balancing the rays of the Sun. Not too much, not too little. Opening windows to move fresh air around, regulating the thermostat. He took time to make a homemade blended soil, and filtered the water he fed to his boy.
It would seem both excessive and obsessive, but Trevor didn't consume an overt amount of time. Maurice developed a unobtrusive rhythm, and found a stride. It felt nice to make room for kindness, to be thoughtful, and for the majority of the day it was Trevor who fed Maurice. Adding to the ambience of his home, a listening ear who brightened with the occasional conversation. The pruning and spritzing was as mediative as it was captivating. The house had harmony. The morning's had purpose.
Across the room the glory of Trevor's branches stood proud. He was an ambassador to the magnificence of nature, a small giant, set upon the island of Maurice's kitchen. Representing the forests and parks across the country. Maurice's custodian to the natural world, a diplomat within his home. Their breath was in harmony. Each breathing life to the other.
There was no conflict, there was no stress. Just peace, and care, as both matured, growing ever onwards towards the sunlight, until their inevitable twilights.
“To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” – Audrey Hepburn
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write