Here’s the thing I love about trees. They always look up, and it’s worth looking up to see them. Gazillions of them are many lifetimes older than you or I. They bring me perspective.
When I was nine, I had a pet tree called Clarence (go with me here, people). I spent hours in the garden talking to him. He breathed in his surroundings and I, when I was with him, did too.
When a branch is cut off a tree, nothing seems to happen for a while does it. You think, “Is that it? Will that pruning be the end of it?” But then when next you notice, a green bud has appeared. Sometimes from a similar place,
other times from somewhere new entirely.
Many of my branches have been cut away and (I remind myself) there is a physical reality to the time it takes for anything new to grow. So I have two choices: I can sit and look at the death; or I can wait with expectation for (some sort of) new life.
In the meantime, I can breathe in my surroundings, feel the air on my cuts and look up.
I am trusting my experience to prove true: that with every skillful pruning there does come abundant regrowth. Not the same, but new. And that’s what the pruning was meant for. Not to diminish, but to increase.
I’m banking on it, aren’t you?