All About Us
After six decades on this earth and nearly as many years tending tiny trees, I’ve learned that bonsai isn’t just a hobby—it’s a quiet conversation with time itself. Each branch teaches patience, each root reminds you to respect what you cannot see. I’ve shaped thousands of trees, but they’ve shaped me far more, showing me the value of stillness in a world that rushes past. When I share what I’ve learned—how to read the subtle language of leaves or coax a stubborn trunk into grace—I’m really passing along a lifetime of listening. Bonsai rewards those who slow down, breathe deeply, and let the tree reveal what it wants to become.
Connecting People to Plants
There’s a special kind of joy in watching someone’s eyes soften as they touch a leaf or notice a bud they hadn’t seen before. After a lifetime with bonsai and countless hours spent in the quiet company of living things, I’ve come to believe that plants are some of the finest teachers we have. When I guide someone toward their first tree or help them understand the rhythm of watering, I’m really helping them reconnect with a part of themselves that the modern world often buries. Plants slow us down, steady our breath, and remind us that growth—real growth—takes time. Sharing that connection, watching it take root in someone else, has become one of the greatest pleasures of my later years.
This Is The Nursery
Out behind my workshop sits a nursery full of young plants—saplings and seedlings I’ve raised from cuttings, seeds, and the occasional stubborn branch that refused to quit. I tend to them the way an old shepherd minds his flock, watching for the quiet signs of strength or struggle. As winter approaches, the whole place shifts into a slower rhythm. I tuck the tender ones into sheltered cold frames, mulch the roots of the hardier trees, and adjust their watering so they don’t sit in cold, wet soil. It’s a careful dance between protection and resilience; you want them safe, but you also want them to feel the season, to grow tougher for it. Preparing them for winter has become one of my favorite rituals—an act of stewardship that reminds me that every great bonsai, no matter how ancient it looks, once needed this same gentle start.