Robert Ausura Writing

     This week my wife and I moved our bonsai out of their winter quarters—an azalea bed close to the house, where they are be shielded from freezing winds—and back out into the middle of the backyard, where we can enjoy them through the summer. We’ve been collecting, cultivating and generally fussing over these dwarf potted trees almost since the day we met. We’ve taken bonsai classes. For a while we belonged to a bonsai club. We have a modest library of bonsai reference books, a small arsenal of bonsai tools, and a list of experts to call in bonsai emergencies.

     There is a lot to know about bonsai—and by bonsai I do not mean those doomed shrub cuttings that mall kiosks peddle around the holidays. There is also a lot to learn from them.

     Like any other objet d'art, a classic bonsai is an appealing deceit. It is someone’s interpretation of what a tree should be. Visit the Bonsai and Penjing Collection at the National Arboretum, and you’ll see what I mean. These trees are little giants, with a strength and stature all out proportion to their size. They are miniature realizations of what we find most majestic in trees, achieved by selectively shaping and pruning to bring roots, trunk, branches, foliage and open space into perfect balance. It is a hard-won illusion; without persistent care a bonsai will grow as big and unruly as any other tree of its species.

     A well-crafted script or speech is like a Fine bonsai. It is an appealing deceit, one in which everything but the core concept is dwarfed to fit into a small plot of time. Its message is compact, with only the strongest branches showing, yet complete. It mimics natural conversation, but without the tangled growth of ordinary talk. There is nothing extraneous—every element contributes to the unity of impression. Structure, expression and open space are in balance; no feature overpowers another. And just as the labors of the gardener are invisible in a bonsai, so too the writer’s work should be transparent. The listener should be unaware he is hearing something contrived. When all of these minor miracles are achieved, a twenty-minute presentation, a seven-minute video and a 30-second TV spot can affect an audience all out proportion to their size.

     One of the side effects of cultivating bonsai is that you begin looking at all trees differently. Driving through the countryside or hiking through a state park, I often wish I had pruning shears with me. There are so many trees with potential! The same is true of presentations and speeches I attend, multimedia programs I try, corporate videos I watch. I see so much potential. And in almost every case where potential is unrealized, it is because someone does not understand the basic principle of writing bonsai.