I like trees. I might even have a bit of a Lorax streak when gravity sifts and settles the matter right down to the horizon line. This amorous affinity is but one of the reasons I celebrate autumn. The push and pull between summer and winter bring out the showiest stages of a deciduous tree’s life. Cooler temperatures and vivid transitional colors create excitement across the hemisphere. It is a fleeting timeline of majesty and wonder. The trees transform from an almost uniform verdant blanket to individual splashes of glowing and evolving hues. Density gives way to new spatial windows as the leaves shift their energy into winter storage and fall to the earth. The new space provides warmth; the fallen organic matter blankets future nutrients and offers safety for smaller creatures. What was once visually impenetrable becomes discernible. The new clarity makes room for snowfall, minimizing damage to the branches. The new spaces let the sun warm and melt, sustaining hydration, a healthy soil biome, and the cycles of numerous lifeforms. On second thought, I don’t just like trees; I love them.
My passion for trees led me into the hobby of tending and cultivating bonsai. Like tending cacti, bonsai offers many lessons, the greatest of which, in my opinion, is patience and vision. Like all artists, good bonsai artists spend far more time observing and thinking than executing. Many make drawings indicating what they intend the subject to look like in maturity. That drawing becomes a blueprint for future decision-making. A handful of style templates exist for traditional bonsai design and are commonly referenced in the ideation phase. These styles serve as categories and statements we use to describe the plan’s intent and categorize the specimen. A bonsai enthusiast’s work will commonly be judged by their ability to adhere to a particular style in a mature specimen.
Within any standard style, certain design elements come into play. The ‘positive’ spaces are the ones that make up the ground, the trunk, the branches, and the leaves. The slightly more abstract design variable is often called ‘negative space’—the area surrounding the subject and between forefront details.
With experience and maturity, I have come to believe that negative space, when used correctly, creates beauty, interest, and focus on the desired subject. When a bonsai is overgrown, you cannot see the branches or the trunk. The unique character, distress, and curvature that may be styled into the tree become buried behind the foliage. Without intentional pruning, the tree becomes dull, average, and unremarkable. Something special may be hidden, but observers will never see it unless the tender makes a deliberate effort to create open spaces within the design.
The challenge is that creating these negative spaces, often referred to in bonsai design as “open spaces,” takes very thoughtful and concious action. Most observers do not notice open space until its absence creates a design conflict. Masters of their craft utilize open spaces to transform their work from average to exceptional.
An interesting element about bonsai craft is that the subject is living and sometimes does not behave as predictably as one might like. A bonsai artist has a good idea of how a species will regrow when pruned, and they factor those predictions into their decisions. However (like any parent will confirm), the tree has its own journey to follow. New growth does not always subscribe to the prescribed plan. With wisdom and understanding, the bonsai artist adapts the plan to the new growth, exercising flexibility and a willingness to pivot when circumstances outside of their control evolve.
Improvisation is beautiful to me. It is rarely perfect, but it is genuine and real. The late Bob Weir, rhythm guitarist of the Grateful Dead, once stated in an interview with Rolling Stone Magazine, “Making plans seems like a waste of time. Because nothing ever works out as you expected it to.” This quote makes me laugh, particularly when you consider his art and career.
Improvisational music starts with a formal plan and a series of musical rules necessary for the overall equation to work, but within that plan, there are moments when breaking the confines of the script and being in the moment make actual magic happen. In all of my artistic pursuits, I look for those hidden gems and hope to unearth a couple myself sometime in my life. The magic, as a form of pure, analog, organic, serendipitous human brilliance, is what makes art what it is and makes all the effort worthwhile.
I have been a student of creative process for as long as my mind has recollection. I have held those tenets dear through various life phases: student, employee, manager, husband, business owner, and father. My mind and general thought process have remained fairly consistent. This consistency has allowed me to recognize the ‘killer of the creative,’ and I know it well. Sometimes, it is unavoidable. When I fail to allow open spaces in my day, my mind becomes dull and overgrown, and my thoughts become predictable and mundane. When I purposefully prune complexity from my schedule, I find time to contemplate, focus, reflect, meditate, and, in turn, emotionally heal from the abuses and insults of modern society.
Overplanning kills open space: metaphorically speaking in terms of bonsai design and simplifying your personal lives. If we are to even flirt with the higher elevation ideals of mortality and being human, we need conscious quiet time for reflection. Otherwise, your mind is as innovative and fruitful as a social media doom scroll, perpetually distracted from actual life by low-level clickbait algorithmically designed to addict.
American filmmaker, actor, writer, and comedian Woody Allen is quoted as saying his variation of a Yiddish proverb: “If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.” I agree with this statement, but my experience has been that God doesn’t want to punish you for making a plan; he wants you to reach your full potential, and the overloaded, manic schedule you have created eliminates what you need to feed your mind and rise above the mundane. I believe the root (the nebari in the context of bonsai art) of the mental health crisis in the United States is subscribing to the myth that corporate productivity standards are a normal baseline, busyness is success, hurry is a virtue, and that one must succumb to a life spinning in a hamster wheel, the only destination of which is an early demise.
Get out this fall and enjoy our mountains that so magnificently encircle the Heber Valley. Eliminate branches that aren’t needed and hide the beauty of your personal style and character. Find the open spaces in your day. Simplify your routine. Prioritize quiet time for meditation and pondering. Rediscover the wonder of our natural surroundings. Become part of the solution by fixing yourself first and then rescuing your fellow citizens in need.
