Bonsai Ballet: Life After Youth
I thought I’d be dead by 60, I was wrong.
How This All Came About... It started with a garden tour in the Twin Cities. My friend Sandee had just lost a beloved willow tree to a summer storm; its absence left a hole in her yard and a question in her heart. As we wandered through Japanese gardens, we found ourselves at the Como Park Zoo and Conservatory, standing before the bonsai collection. These weren’t replacements for the willow. They were something else entirely. Icons. Performers. I felt compelled to photograph them — not as plants, but as characters. They whispered secrets, and I knew they belonged in my Secret Life of Plants series. I began composing digital pieces that were soft, monochromatic, and unusually subtle for me. I added elements of Zen gardens — raked sand, stone, fence — and finally, time itself: sun and moon. Each tree moved across the canvas from left to right, bending like dancers in a slow performance. The colors walked the cracks of the color wheel. Rocks flirted with trees. The topography rose and fell until the final tree stood alone, free in the meadow. Only when I staged the series in a museum setting did I realize this was a ballet. A ballet in five acts. And it wasn’t about youth — it was about what comes after. The first act began not with beauty, but with fatigue. A gallbladder surgery. Then a knee. That’s when I thought, I’ll be dead by sixty. But rehabilitation began. Slowly. Very slowly. And now, at sixty, I find myself happy with where I am — artistically, emotionally, imaginatively. I’m manifesting what comes next. This ballet is my archive of movement. My choreography of aging. My duet with time.
A Libretto in Five Acts
This ballet begins in the aftermath of youth. Youth is the overture — unscored, unexamined, a blur of motion. The curtain rises in your forties, when the body begins to whisper. A twinge. A pause. A lean. The bonsai trees at Como Park became my muses — each one performing a gesture I recognized in myself. This is not a story of decline. It’s a choreography of adaptation.
Act I: Morning Blush (The Forties)
The first twinge arrives. You’re still moving fast, but something shifts. A backache. A knee that doesn’t bounce back. You begin to notice the choreography of aging. The tree in Morning Blush leans slightly, casting a shadow you didn’t see before. The sun is rising, where is the sun? Oh, there it is, but it is no longer innocent.
Red sun, soft warning
the tree begins its descent
with grace, not alarm.
Act II: Chamomile (The Fifties)
You learn to manage. You’re not convinced the end isn’t near. You sip tea, monitor blood pressure, and rehearse optimism. The tree in Chamomile bends gently, partnered by golden light. The fence becomes a barre. You’re still dancing, just slower.
Golden light steadies
the tree leans into the ache,
Can I continue?
Act III: Jade Afternoon (The Sixties)
You reblossom. You realize you’re not dying — you’re adapting. You find rhythm in restraint, strength in pacing. The tree in Jade Afternoon stands tall, centered, reborn. The light is clear. The choreography is deliberate.
Green holds the middle
the tree lifts with quiet pride,
the sun nods in time.
Act IV: Twilight (The Seventies)
You slow, but do not stop. You retire from urgency, not from purpose. The tree in Twilight leans dramatically, casting a long reflection. The moon rises. The fence posts mark time. You move with intention, not ambition.
Shadow stretches wide
the tree rehearses its bow
but holds the final note.
Act V: Nocturne (The Eighties)
You exit with grace. You step out of the limelight, but not out of life. The tree in Nocturne bows fully, reflected in still water. The moon is bright. The audience is quiet. You do not fall — you conclude.
Moon casts its question
the tree bows, not to the end,
but to what remains.
🌿 Epilogue
Bonsai Ballet is not a lament. It’s a duet between gravity and grace. The trees taught me that aging is movement. That leaning is not falling. That reflection is not regret.
This is my archive of adaptation. My choreography of purpose. My rehearsal for what comes next.