Story *not strictly* about my peach tree.

(A lesson about blooming too fast.)

My peach tree is the first thing I see when I gaze out of my bedroom window – mostly though when I’m in there, my blackout curtains are closed for me to sleep. My peach tree was only a few feet tall when I had her five years ago. As I watered and cared about her regularly, she quickly sprouted above my roof. Three years ago, she gifted me with so much fruit that I could gather my friends to celebrate and enjoy the delicious treats together.

[My peach tree reminds me of how I used to be: in good health, contented with synapse discovery, stimulating reads/ podcasts, and exciting art projects. I often hopped into my car with my dog Stella to immerse into the beauty of gorgeous local gems. Together we tapped into Mother Earth’s inspiring energy: we breathed in the fresh air mixed with the scent of forests, blue skies and the Pacific Ocean – just the two of us, Stella and I.]

Last year the drought hit, and the dogs chewed the irrigation tubing. I was too preoccupied with my own issues to consider consequences. There were almost no peaches that year, but the few ones were just as sweet and flavorful as before. I know my peach tree tried her best under the circumstances.

This year, we had unexpected amounts of rain. My peach tree bloomed so quickly and suddenly that I found her happily dressed up with flowers even before she had a chance to grow new leaves. I felt relieved and turned inwards once again. We didn’t see each other much for the following months.

Behind my dark curtains, I failed to recognize that the humidity invited a disease that attacks the leaves and kills plants. Just as rapidly as she rushed into blooming, my peach tree started withering. I looked away, wishing that the invisible invader would go away on its own. My peach tree became gradually sicker. Finally, I acknowledged my false hope and taught myself how to save her. A few weeks later, I noticed fresh green leaves aspiring towards the sun at the tip of the seemingly dead branches.

There will not be any fruits this year. Feeling hopeful about next year though. With time, patience, resilience and much love, my peach tree and I are re-learning how to grow into wiser versions of our former selves. This time, curtains remain open.