Dreaming of a writing forest

“Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.”~Zane Grey, American writer

I work from home a lot of days. To be my most productive, I need positive surroundings. That happy environment includes a cup of tea or coffee, background noise from TV or radio, natural light, a clean workspace, books and photos nearby, lip balm, Office Guys and plants.

I like plants more that flowers. Plants have a longer lifespan. They fill up a space better, be it with fluffy leaves or long trails framing a desk shelf. They’re green, a relaxing color to me. They’re solid and not showy like flowers, but that does not mean I’m not enamored by a dozen deep red roses. Plants equal stability.

That sentimentality is why the death-rebirth-hope of my umbrella tree is so disturbing. I’ve had her since my first evil ex-job, a mailed present from my first ex-boyfriend (still a good guy), years before I met my husband, a gift and she has moved through three states with me. She’s lived and died several times over, always growing back strong. This time, I am nervous.


I’ll remove the complete branch tomorrow. I only have so much strength.

An offshoot branch lost the struggle for life, but I didn’t realize that until I cut off the “wrong” part of my tree. The main tree trunk had been cut back so many times that I thought the branch, which still had leaves, would be the best to survive. I blamed myself, that I was careless cutting off the wrong part of the tree. As those leaves shriveled, I knew her death is on my shears.

Then I noticed new growth. I’ve chronicled her journey on my Instagram feed, #TheWritersTree.

I have to believe that she is strong enough overcome all this and survive the shock of major operation: removing her branch. That’s even more disturbing because I saw new growth at the top of that branch just last week. Will she live? Will she die? If she lives, how will she look now? I admired her towering strength that filled the corner of my living room, her leaves crushing into the ceiling. That’s the image I have of her, for her. Will that be what will be?

She needs me to trust her. I need to trust myself to trust her.

I’m spending my days at home writing from the dining room table, in the corner closest to her. I’m watching, beside her, for her comfort and mine.

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