When we returned from 3 weeks in London in mid-January, the orange tree looked pathetic. It's always been a challenge to keep that little tree watered. The soil dries out extra fast.
Usually i put the orange tree up front so i can see it and remember to water it. But somehow it was standing in the back row of houseplants, its green leaves dry and curled up. No amount of water rejuvenated the leaves, so i asked my sweetie to prune it while i left the room. Bill is an excellent pruner, but i can't bear to watch. The finished product looked like a gangly teenager--tall and skinny--with a mop of green leaf "hair" at the top. Not really attractive.
Two weeks later, orange blossoms perfume the air and little green leaves sprout from what remains of the branches.
Sometimes, we have to prune off the dead wood of our lives, the dead branches, so that we can flower. This past week, I've thrown away my scrapbooks from the 1960s and 1970s. Gone. Well, it was already gone. Long gone. Now, even the nostalgia is gone, and the memories are gone too. As i realize that the memory takes place in the present moment.
photo by EugeneZelenko