Deep within the core of my intellectual greenhouse grows the convoluted tree of my writing. Its ever growing life force began, like so many trees do, as a seed carefully cultivated in my imagination. Slowly, it was fed with ink water and nutrients of recycled paper. The sprouting of this tree was achieved with challenge, but perseverance. Words upon the paper—the earliest results of nourishment, tangible evidence that the sprouting seed was, indeed, growing, and growing swiftly.
It didn’t take long for the sprout to thicken and become a sturdy shoot. To continue its laborious growth from seed to sapling, my tree of writing required a more specific type of nourishment: that of instructional food of thought (e.g., grammar, genre, parts of speech, elements of various forms, etc.). For twelve long, formally structured, and concentric years, the trunk of my writing tree expanded, both in breadth and altitude. A few branches had begun to reach out into the world, each so diverse and distinct from each other, but rooted in the common language of my tree trunk.
Today, my tree stands strong, in the center of my regulated garden, nourished by the sunlight of my passion. The branches are numerous, but varied in length and strength. Climbing my tree, some limbs would support my weight, helping me rise in the world, expanding my horizon. Other branches are merely twigs—small, underdeveloped and malnourished avenues of genre, style, and form. They would snap beneath my entire weight should I try to stand on them. But they are not done growing. Every day, those weak twigs compete for resources from the larger branches: those branches developed from passion and interest, nourished daily by practice and continued pursuit. These sturdy limbs are those of creative writing, literary essay, and psychological research and reviews, and it is these three branches that reach the highest, support the greatest weight, and sprout the most numerous and greenest abundance of leaves.
The smaller twigs of economics and history, biology and business may remain only sprigs with a single or couple of leaves of experience, but they exist, even if only by mere exposure to basic nutrients they manage to siphon here and there. This is not to say that these sprigs are useless altogether. While they may not support my weight as I climb to greater elevations, they are still a bud in my intellectual garden and a notch on my tree of writing. They may still provide a purpose as I continually strive to serve others, offering tendrils of wisdom and guidance from the knowledge that makes up my tree of writing.
Each essay, each story, every novel, and every piece of poetry is another leaf on the branches of my tree. Each leaf has its own purposeful path from germination to maturity; its own format and organization, each one distinct and different from the other, but they all originate from the same base—the same roots that have entrenched themselves deep in my mind.
My tree of writing is the heart of my intellectual garden. The roots are well situated and reach deep into my past, present, and future. The branches continue to develop and bloom with persistent sunlight and practice, producing more and more leaves through the relentlessness of time. My writing tree shall never see an autumn or winter, where leaves are shed and lost. My writing will endure; it will remain green and prosperous in a never ending spring and summer that will continually provide passionate sunlight and knowledge-based waters for its eternal growth.