Five years ago, my partner Grif gave me a bonsai for Christmas. We had only been dating a few months, so I was relieved that he had even bought me a present at all. Thankfully, I was able to avoid any awkwardness associated with an unreciprocated gift exchange, and I took it as a sign that he really liked me. I was also pleasantly surprised at the thoughtfulness of the present. A bonsai is the perfect gift for a girl who works in horticulture! Or so I thought…
The bonsai came in a large cardboard box, wrapped in bright red paper. Grif had ordered it online and had it shipped to our town in South Florida, all the way from Olive Branch, Mississippi. The demure little plant hailed from Brussel’s Bonsai, which claimed to be America’s largest bonsai nursery. The trunk of the bonsai curved artistically out of its ceramic blue pot, with a tuft of tiny green leaves at its top. I held up the bonsai, a smile beaming across my face as Grif snapped a photo. I decided to call the tree Benji in honor of its scientific name, Ficus benjamina.
But from the start, Benji had troubles. I thought perhaps he did not have a good journey from Mississippi, or perhaps he missed his old home and didn’t like the heat of a Florida winter. I read and re-read the small pamphlet of care instructions that he came with. Water, check. Sunlight, check. Fertilizer, check. But as leaves fell off one by one, I grew more and more concerned. Only one month in, the canopy of the bonsai was so thin that I was no longer a proud plant parent. I fully understood the desperation of Kate Hudson’s character in the movie How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, not to kill their love fern, or in this case, not to kill our love bonsai.
As the weeks wore on, Benji became a point of contention in our relationship. “You’re not watering him enough!” Grif would scold me. Benji also started to become a personal embarrassment. I — an expert horticulturalist — could not keep a damn bonsai alive, no matter how hard I tried. When there were only a handful of leaves left, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went online and ordered a new Ficus benjamina with an artistically curved trunk in a new blue ceramic pot from Brussel’s Bonsai.
When Benji 2.0 arrived at my apartment doorstep, I took him out of his cardboard box and set him down next to the window where Benji 1.0 had been. I waited a week or so before I invited Grif over again. “Wow!” he remarked. “Benji looks so much better! What did you do?!” “Oh, I have my ways!” I replied with a smug smile. My plan had worked! Or so I thought…
By nature, I am a very sensitive and expressive person who wears her heart on her sleeve. I cannot lie, because when I do, my facial expression gives it away immediately. Instead, I have mastered the white lie of omission to make others feel better, which would certainly apply in this case. But my dishonesty can only go so far. In the midst of a heated argument, I confessed to Grif, “Well, I KILLED Benji!” A look of disbelief crossed his face, and he retorted, “You’re just saying that to hurt me!” Which was indeed the truth.
As Benji 2.0 continued to grow in my apartment, Grif and my relationship also continued to grow stronger, despite the occasional argument. After the promise of an engagement ring, Grif and I moved into a townhouse together. I brought Benji and placed him on the mantle beneath our TV, so Grif and I could enjoy his presence while we were snuggling on the couch together. But Benji 2.0 did not like his new surroundings and began dropping his leaves in protest. This time, Grif could witness how much care and attention I lathered onto our love bonsai. I drenched Benji’s ceramic pot with pesticide to keep the fungus gnats at bay that were devouring his roots. I sprayed Benji’s tiny leaves with insecticide to keep the whitefly population down that was sucking his sap. I rotated him outside to get more direct sunlight on sunny days.
But over time, Benji 2.0 continued to decline. Once again, I took matters into my own hands. I clipped off the bonsai’s one remaining healthy shoot with the most leaves on it and stuck it in water. I crossed my fingers, and Grif said a short prayer. A few weeks later, roots began to grow from the cutting, and Benji 3.0 was born.
Predictably, Benji 3.0 has been nothing but trouble as well. But after three years of living in our townhouse together, Grif and I have acquired quite a collection of love orchids and love succulents, and we have a small backyard filled with love palms and love shrubs. Last Christmas, Grif’s children (my now stepchildren) gave me a large Fukien Tea bonsai from a local nursery. It is thriving and has already doubled in size, towering over Benji 3.0. Over time, the love between Grif and me has grown far beyond just a single bonsai.
Like Benji, our love has gone through many different iterations. Each time Grif and I venture into a new version of our relationship, it is helpful to consider what needs to die and what needs to be rebirthed between us. Dishonesty and appeasement died so that the solid truth could be born in our relationship. Resolute independence died so that interdependence could be born. Perhaps letting go and allowing the cycle of death and rebirth is what the art of bonsai is really all about.
love, Lexy
