When you propagate a plant, you cut. You risk. You trust.
You separate something living from its source and believe that what looks like loss will become multiplication. You place it in water, in light, and wait. You cannot rush roots. You cannot negotiate with time. You can only tend conditions and remain patient.
Art works on me this way.
I don’t always leave a gallery feeling changed. Sometimes I leave unsettled, uncertain, or strangely quiet. But something has been cut loose—a thought, an image, a question—and placed somewhere interior and unseen.
Weeks later, it sends out roots.
This is why art belongs in our lives not as decoration or entertainment, but as practice. It asks for faith without spectacle. Care without guarantees. Attention without immediate payoff.
Propagation teaches me that growth rarely announces itself. It arrives quietly, asking only that I keep showing up.
