There’s nothing like the rush I get when I dispense with something that’s overstayed its welcome. At this time of year, the feeling is released with a sharp, shiny tool that I control.
My pruner was a gift from a friend I’ve known since the first grade. I had just bought my first house, with a yard the size of a postage stamp. “You’ll love it,” Barbara told me.
And I do. Pruning yields far more satisfaction than planting, fertilizing–all that nurturing stuff that is associated with gardening. And women. Barb let me in on a secret that she, a mother of three, was harboring. Women NEED to prune. And lop. And whack.
Take action and the results are immediate. I get an almost endorphin high. Still holding the smoking gun, I continue onto the next branch that has outreached its air rights, and before I know it an hour has passed and I am shinbone-deep in viburnum detritus.
It’s a great combo of instant gratification and a little zen. Not to mention long-term benefits of healthier plants and more blooms next spring. And being able to see my front door.
Now I’m going to bring that pruner into my life as a metaphor and apply it to all the tangled vines that have been tripping me up. Somewhere in there is a rose of Sharon.
They are hardy and they grow quickly.