Monday, May 11, 2009
I spent most of the afternoon yesterday working in the garden. Among other tasks, I pruned my roses. And thought of my mother, who was never happier than when she was cutting away at dead wood, metaphorically or in reality.
At the house where we grew up, one edge of the driveway was marked by a row of weigelia. These are bushes that grow, bouquet-like, with graceful limbs that bend in the wind and are covered, for a few weeks each summer, with (in our case) pinkish flowers.
Every year, my mother would spend days pruning the weigelia. It was hard to tell whether she loved those bushes or hated them, sometimes, her pruning was so intense. She would end up with a pile of branches nearly as big as the bushes that remained. Those bushes thrived from it, and she did, too.
I know that roses need space in their centers. They need to feel the breeze and the sun in their hearts. I gathered my courage and pruned them so that they could have what they want, and what they need. It hurt to cut some of those branches. It always does. But what remains will be stronger and healthier for it.
Thank you for reading!