What a Sick Olive Tree Taught Me About looking after my Mind

We have this little olive tree on our balcony that my mother bought me. My mum's an enthusiastic gardener. She's always had a talent for caring for plants, despite being a very busy woman. Nearly all the plants she has bought me over the years have died. Recently, she bought a hardy little olive tree. Olive trees can live for 2,000 years — she probably thought, "Even Robbie couldn’t kill an olive tree."

Returning from a recent trip, I noticed the olive tree looked really unwell. It was covered in a dark, sooty layer. It looked to be on its last legs. "I've killed this one too," I thought.

I began to pay more attention to it. But nothing changed. It continued to look neglected — unwell, unattractive, and on the edge of expiring.

I called my mother by video. I showed her the sad little tree. Examining it with her expert eye, she said, "Give it some care and attention."

I tried a bit harder. Still, nothing improved. "It's too far gone," I thought. "Time to let it go."

Seeking expert confirmation, I called my mother again and showed her the sickly little tree. Its leaves and branches were covered in lumps and bumps — it looked cancerous, horrible, and was covered in some sticky substance.

Like an online doctor, my mum examined carefully — asking me to point the phone camera here and there. Finally, she said, "Maybe it’s a scale insect. Let’s look that up."

Sure enough, we found that scale insects leave sooty traces and secrete sticky residue.

"Can I spray it?" I asked, hoping for a quick solution. "No," she said. "It needs patient care and attention."

I'm not a patient guy, especially when it comes to plants. But that was the diagnosis. I had to give it a try.

Each day, I would clean a few leaves gently with soapy water, then warm water. I used a soft toothbrush. (There's a lot of leaves on a tree — even a sick little olive tree.) I couldn’t scrub too hard, or I’d damage the leaves and branches.

It was slow and repetitive work, but gradually the leaves and branches became cleaner. I realized the lumps were insects, stuck on the bark.

I couldn’t rush — it took time. Despite the small size of the tree, it had many leaves and branches. It forced me to be patient.

Slowly, it started to look healthier. The olive tree’s real colour returned.

I began to be fascinated by olive trees. I even started noticing and examining other olive trees — What does a clean, healthy one look like? And I remembered: they can live 2,000 years. I had nearly lost mine through neglect.

Each morning, as I cleaned it, I realised — it’s just like meditation. Bringing your attention back, gently, again and again. Whether it’s to the breath, the body, or a sound. Not rushing. Not expecting quick results. Just slow, gentle, kind attention.

One of my first meditation teachers, Lama Yeshe, used to say the mind is sticky. Looking after it is like looking after furniture — it gathers dust. It needs constant dusting.

That became my morning routine.

Each morning, I would be on the balcony brushing the olive tree’s leaves gently with soapy water and a toothbrush. It tested my patience, but I wanted it to live.

And it struck me — this is how the mind works too.

We're bombarded with information — media, to-do lists, conversations, technology, work demands, pressure, stress, the news cycle. Our minds get sooty, sticky, and unhealthy, overloaded. Our vision gets clouded.

Lama Yeshe was right — we need daily mind-cleaning. Gentle attention. Not constant distraction and stress. Not pushing and rushing. Just noticing. Just bringing our focus back — into the present moment, back to our lives, out of our heads.

The little olive tree taught me something important.

If I want to keep my mind clear and calm — able to make wise decisions, to pay real attention to the people around me, to look after my work, my health, and my relationships — I have to care for it. A mind that isn't distracted, tired, or addled doesn't just happen. Just as the olive tree needed daily care and patient cleaning to survive, so does the mind — yours and mine.

Neglect leads to decay. When I neglected the olive tree, it became infected — covered in sooty mould, sticky residue, and parasitic insects. It nearly died.

And when we neglect the mind, exactly the same thing happens. Not with insects — but with chemical imbalances and emotional infections.

Without daily care, the mind becomes flooded with cortisol, adrenaline, and chronic dopamine crashes. These chemical storms create an inner environment where stress, anxiety, irritation, anger, jealousy, depression, and hopelessness can breed — just like parasites on a sick tree.

We often think these emotions come purely from the outside — from circumstances, from other people. But much of it grows inside us because we haven't been looking after the mind itself. Neglect creates the perfect environment for emotional infection to take hold.

A healthy mind, like a healthy tree, needs consistent, thoughtful care. It needs rest. It needs real nutrition — not just for the body, but for the nervous system. It needs space from constant stimulation. It needs time to recover from the floods of stress chemicals we are bombarded with every day. It needs attention — gentle, patient, repeated attention — just like the little olive tree.

The olive tree showed me this truth in a way I could see with my own eyes: Neglect leads to disease. Care leads to health.

And just like the tree, when we take care of the mind patiently, day after day, it gradually clears. Its natural resilience returns. Its strength and vitality come back.

I even have the photos to prove it: The olive tree when it was gummed up, sick, dark, and dying — and the olive tree today — healthy, green, strong.

A mind neglected struggles. A mind cared for can thrive.