Light, Water, Love

By Michelle Hensley

Light, water, love.

What a plant needs to thrive, to grow. Common needs for humans. But what if you didn’t get what you needed to grow? Would you somehow persevere?

I didn’t have what I needed to grow. I had the basics: food, shelter, clothing. They were fragile, not always in quantities that would lead to a secure sense of comfort. Clothing was mostly from garage sales or purchased with credit cards that would later have to be cut up. Shelter was a house that was mortgaged several times over to pay for a gambling addiction. Food was portioned, and we filled our bellies with bread and butter because maybe we were still hungry and that’s all we had left on the table.

Love was hard earned. It was conditional to behavior. Feelings of animosity and jealousy led to separation—physical and emotional. My adult self recognizes the disfunction, the probable mental illness, the absurdity of the accusations. I did not feel loved.

I moved out three weeks after high school graduation, and I was given a tree a short time after that. A houseplant ficus tree. I cared for that tree. I gave it light, water, love. I made sure it had a sunny window in every rented apartment and basement space. As it grew, so did I.

Finally, when I was living in a house to call home after I married, the tree thrived, and so did I. It grew so big and tall that it had to be replanted, cut back, split, and repotted many times over 30-plus years. It became a member of the family, fondly known as “the tree.” It stood in as a Christmas tree more than once. The tree lived at a trusted friend’s house when it got too tall.

Eventually, it made its way back and had to be hacked once again to fit into the space available. Leaves would drop in protest to the jarring change of space and severing. And then, as if by magic, new shoots would emerge, with new starts of a branch. I showered it with light, water, love.

It was a constant reminder that with light, water, and love, anything could thrive.

In a particularly tough patch in my life, I started to resent the tree. It had been a gift from a person who did not give me what I needed—love. I did not get the care and compassion that was essential to grow as a human being. I began to see the tree as a painful reminder of that person and I made plans to kill the tree. Yes, kill it, as in take it out back and hack it up with a hand saw, a hatchet, or whatever sharp tool I could get my hands on. I envisioned a scene like the one depicted in the movie “Mommy Dearest,” where Joan Crawford, in a fit of anger, chops down a prized ornamental tree.

I didn’t kill the tree. Instead, I made arrangements for it to live at the library. I gave up that tree. I now know that it will live in infamy in a space that was despised by the one who failed to give me what I needed. The thought of the tree getting to bear witness to all the growth and knowledge that’s nurtured in that building—everything I was denied—gives me peace.

The tree also produced a stub, a leftover of the last replanting. It was nothing more than a stump in a big pot. It had been unceremoniously shoved in a dark corner, away from light. It had been ignored, forgotten. There was no light, no water, no love, nothing.

A side glance one day brought shock when a flash of green caught my eye. From behind a chair, nestled deep in the corner, there was life. The tree had not given up. The tree had sprouted a new start, from deep beneath the soil, an offshoot, perhaps, of the stump. The tree had used its reserves, its inner strength, to show that it could persevere.

The new branchtree appears strong. It mockingly showed up, despite the lack of light, water, and love. It is here to grow. Its inner strength pushed through. It’s a survivor. It will not be killed. It has become the new tree, the courageous self-sufficient being that emerged. It’s now being given light, water, and love. It sits in the sun. It is growing. It will know that despite its beginnings, it alone pushed above the soil to emerge victoriously.

I am the new tree.