The Bonsai That Survived Me

Somewhere in February, while walking near home in Zurich, I spotted a bonsai beside the street. Next to it were several empty pottery pots, all free to take. A quick search identified the tree as a ginseng bonsai.

I have always loved plants. Mr Miyagi had also planted the idea that one day I should own a bonsai.

I took it home and bought only soil. The free bonsai went into one of the free pots. I extended a shelf so it could sit where it received enough light. Very efficient. Bonsai rescue completed.

Then I stood up and hit it with my head.

The pot hit the floor. Both healthy branches, the only two carrying leaves, snapped clean off. In roughly one second I had converted a healthy bonsai into a stump and tested my new shelf through a completely unplanned method.

I kept it. My mom and grandma had always handled plants with an ease I remembered: roots, stubs, cuttings, bits that looked finished, then somehow green again. The internet said ginseng bonsai were particularly tough. I liked that. A plant living with me should probably have some tolerance for operational chaos.

Week one: nothing. Week two: same. Week three: still a stump. During the fourth week, tiny green sprouts appeared.

I had a month-long trip to Greece coming up. I built a wick-watering system, gave the bonsai a small rosemary companion, and left them to negotiate with the arrangement.

When I returned, the water level suggested the wick had stopped working around day fifteen. The rosemary was dry as hay. The ginseng was alive and green. The rosemary had expected better management. The ginseng understood the operating environment.

Months later, it is thriving. We seem to like each other. It tolerates my careless care and erratic schedule; I give it light, water, and considerably less contact with my head. The shelf is sturdy now.