I will never forget the Perfect Tree. When I got married in 2006, I left my hectic TV journalism life in Calgary for the relative quiet of domesticity in Rochester, New York. I was waiting for my green card with a job lined up at the local ABC station—a dream role that faded when the paperwork took longer than expected. Devastated, I sought comfort in simple things, including the daily ritual of having tea at my kitchen table, gazing out the
window at the courtyard below. In its center stood the most symmetrical, leafy tree I’ve ever seen. Its perfection was a solace. Its quiet beauty gave me hope. Then, a few weeks before moving to Minneapolis, we were hit with a terrible storm. I woke up the following morning to have my tea in front of Perfect Tree, but it was no longer perfect. Its symmetry was gone. Branches had fallen. I was saddened. But I realized it was a sign. While it
was beaten up, branches and leaves strewn about the courtyard, it was still
standing. This storm was a reminder that sometimes life d
