In my room, I have an enormous jade plant, which has been co-inhabiting my room for the last three years.
The most difficult aspect of this plant is the excess growth because I am hesitant to prune it as I probably should. The branches and even leaves will re-root wherever they land and because I have such a sentimental attachment to this plant, I have an inexhaustible supply of tiny jade.
Jealous, an ex once asked me where he could buy one, so I gave him a small branch so he could have it on his desk.
I don’t think he was satisfied.
The truth is a huge jade like this can’t really be bought or sold, and instead they are passed along, like some kind of immortal pet.
My sister’s best friend lived in a home which was nestled deep in the woods, surrounded by humongous trees, a forest which her father steadily cleared away (and which steadily grew back), while around their home her mother had her own small garden.
As a child, I was enthralled by the curious assemblage of objects at their home. The eclectic collection of art her mother had curated. A varied collection of enormous potted plants, used to make the home happy in the winter. A banjo, for plucking. The enormous woodpile beside the tractor, used to clear land and plow the driveway. And her father’s pipe, which he would smoke every evening after dinner.
When he died, the home was empty, the forest was transformed from the familiar cozy green blanket into a wild untamed mess and at a dinner the next week, her mother announced she would move into a small apartment in the city. That night, surrounded by friends and family, she began to give away some of their possessions and in this way, the jade fell into my care.