This is the written essay:
How to Wake Up a Dead Plant
At the front of our new lot there’s a stick bush, a living plant without greenery. Its branches reach almost to the sidewalk causing passersby to stop and stare. They seem to be wondering why anyone would want a dead stick tree in their front yard.
When you move to the house, bordered by three Royal Palms, you understand the fronds provide shade in the hot Florida summer. But what would you get from a stick?
You decide to pull out the ornamental grasses crowding the dead plant hoping for a miracle. You see, it wasn’t that long ago you believed yourself to be arid and barren, incapable of love, in front of a wall too high to climb.
The next morning after a rainstorm, you decide the inevitable. You walk over to the stick and notice a tiny leaf unfurling. Two weeks later, the dead bush blooms with bright yellow flowers.
“I see your plumeria plant woke up,” says the neighbor.
You pause, smile, and say, “And all it took was a little rain, some rays of hope, and the summer sunshine.”
I now understand why the stick tree refused to bloom. There was a season, a reason for hope.
It helps me understand why writing is so hard for me because what matters to me has changed.
What matters to me now is courage; what matters to me now requires not having the answers and being open to the possibility I’m wrong; what matters to me now is connecting with others through my words; the human engagement, the spark of someone’s eyes when they hear you; the surprise in their face, the nod, the silence when judgment falters and curiosity is nudged, where the potential for love exists.
A Photo of The “Dead” Stick Tree In My Front Yard
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