A Palm Grows in Brooklyn
I sit in front of my potted palm, legs crossed, back supported. My breath comes and goes like the ocean’s waves: oxygen for me, carbon dioxide for my palm.
One long stalk is mostly healthy, with just a few tips of the long leaves drooping and brown. The only other remaining stalk is so small and dried up that I would have chopped it off with the rest except for the hint of brilliant smooth greenery peeking out from the folds.
I try to drop all thoughts of worry, concern, joy and hope. Releasing them as they surface, I focus instead on being present in the moment: the feel of cotton and denim on my arms and legs, the sounds of car wheels grabbing and releasing the road, the mild scent of soap and apricot lotion. Thoughts stilled, senses roaring, I commune with the other breathing entity before me, my beautiful, half-alive plant.