There is a money tree in my bedroom that I have had for years—since my days living in Aspen. It has traveled with me through many chapters: the pandemic in Arizona, a few different houses in Orange County, and now it lives by a window of my home in Laguna Beach where it gets just the right amount of morning light. It’s moved with me like a companion—quiet, steady, growing.

I greet it in the morning, out loud and with a touch of its leaves. There’s something grounding in the gesture. Touch is a powerful, quiet form of connection and this small act of reaching out to nature, even within the walls of my home, reminds me I’m part of something larger. It’s a way to stay attuned. To notice what’s changing.

Tending to plants is both ritual and meditation. Watering, rotating, trimming—these become opportunities to be fully present. The money tree in particular is a beautiful structure. I admire its strong  trunk, the spread of its leaves, the way it leans toward the sun. There’s an elegance to the way nature designs itself—form and function perfectly balanced.

The legend that money trees bring good fortune? I don’t take it literally, but I also don’t dismiss it. It’s been a meaningful presence during some of the most transformative stages in my journey. In that way, it’s not just a plant. It’s a timeline. A memory keeper. And, perhaps, a symbol of abundance.

Every time I pass it, I feel a small sense of gratitude for what it is: a presence that has stayed close, reminding me to slow down, pay attention, and connect.

How do you keep nature close by? What helps you mark time?