Daydreaming, of a better future, making wishes, drifting into fantasy… I thought about this, a year into the pandemic. “Stay at home”. And where is home? What is home? The place where we live, the shelter we have, the space we make our own. For some, it’s not one place, or it’s more than one place, it gets complicated. Think of a potted plant. For diasporans, migrants and refugees it’s like Henk Wildschut says in ‘Rooted’, “They are a symbol that says, ‘I belong here, at least for a short while.’” There’s a dichotomy in this kind of experience; a word which in botany means a branch splitting into two equal parts. With a plant, there is a time for repotting. When the plant cannot grow any more, and its roots surround the soil tightly, the plant starts to die. You need to give the plant a new environment for it to survive, and you must choose the pot, and the soil, and the place, carefully. You must clean the roots, but avoid damaging them. I came across three terms of this repotting; the uproot, the transplant, and the harvest. That’s what I see. And I see a pomegranate tree, because you see one fruit, but when you open it, it’s full of many bright red seeds. It has multiplicity. I daydream that the uprooted heart can be transplanted into a safe pot, and nourished. And the flowers will bloom. And the fruits will ripen. And the harvest will come.