Ineffective hands have dropped her twice, struggling to remove the small black plastic container. It was meant for transport only, to nurture a beginning not the being. The forgiving little cypress tree surrenders to my clumsy efforts, accepts my apologies and finally the container is removed. The earth around her roots is solid, packed not subtle or flowing like the earth, restricted having outgrown the beginning, unable to carry to the tiny fingered needles the nourishment she needs. Propping her against the sink, so only my good hand will touch, I press against the hardened soil, loosen its binding trying to not break the roots. Her uncertain thin trunk and branches quiver and dance as I lift and place her in her new home. Fresh nurturing soil and room to grow. Water is added so she can hear the flow, feel the moistness and growth calling her boundness to shatter and reach. I place her back near the prism'd light with a gentle caress. 'Now you can breathe. Now you can grow.'
Returning I see the dirt filled sink and begin to clean. Amidst the hardened small clods of earth, I see tiny roots separated, broken yet even they have been freed. I look back at the little Cypress tree, her hardened roots free and her body stretching in fresh earth, water, and her being, reaching for the prism'd light. With sacred honor I gather the small clods and whisper to life, 'I surrender my bounded container. Yes, please, break my roots.'