Baby Pear Tree
I should be happy. Spring is on its way. I have a baby pear tree in full leaf in the kitchen. That alone should bring me great joy but I feel bad for her. She was abused, torn from the only home she had ever known, her roots exposed and vulnerable, wrapped in suffocating plastic and forced to hold herself very close and tight, uncomfortably so.
Shipped off in the cold, at the wrong time of year and traveled in a bouncy, closed, dark space all the way here.
The weather changed on her so many times, she didn’t know if she should bud or sprout roots or bloom or die, or just hold very still and do nothing.
It hurt. She was scared. She was bounced around unlike anything a well grounded plant should ever experience. It was very dry. She was in the dark and scared and sad.
When she got here and I let her out of the box and gently pulled away all that plastic, I could see that her limbs had been damaged. She was cramped and dry and oh so very thirsty.
I held her in my lap and tried very hard to know the right thing to do. It is still 30 degrees outside here. To put her out in the snow now that her sap was running would kill her. I could feel it in her buds and limbs, her vitality even though she looked dormant, broken and barely alive.
I got a huge pot and planted her sore, battered roots in my kitchen. I helped her as best I could and left the rest to Gaia.
Within a week, she had tentative leaves on her upper most branches, tiny little tips of green, trying to survive. I’ve watered her carefully, not too much because she could drown, not too little or her tentative beginnings could fall by the wayside. I hurt for her and understand her profoundly.
Her chances are slim in such a climate, but if I can just keep her going until natural warmth arrives, maybe, just maybe she’ll find the will to go on by herself.
The land is much what it always was, the elements prevailing.
Barren dirt, buttes, plateaus, pinons, cedars, their roots clawed into the arid soil, an occasional puff of cloud in vast blue skies.
It is one of the most primal of all feelings, a connection with our Mother Earth.
It calls to us, the caregivers of nature.
Love comes in many forms, more often than not, it takes us by suprise. It is a gift, something to be treasured, nurtured and kept safe from harm.
Once tended, it grows and blooms. It is ever changing and if used, becomes more polished with age.
If left to fend for itself, it wilts and sometimes dies.
But if sheltered, will grow. If watered with kindness, will strengthen and bud.
If shared, will set seed and flourish. If given sunshine and laughter, will send up new shoots, in the form of new friendships, enough to withstand the test of time.
Shiloh, My Faithful Companion
Icky, Shiloh's Kitty
Smiles
