Pruning vs. Weeding
To cultivate is to note what is, and then steer what you notice toward a particular aesthetic or ambition. In a place that is not my own, or with people that I do not feel responsible for, I can linger in the space of things and share in the existence of simply being along side them. That peaceful ‘with’, however, is difficult to sustain when the literal life of a person, animal, or plant feels as if it resides in your hands or as a result of your acts. There is an entire ecosystem to account for, and your attention in one aspect disregards and neglects another. Your ability to zoom out, and let go of your fixation, is ultimately your saving grace. It frees you from your preconceived rules and biases and invites you to participate in an enjoyable reality that does not ask for your suffering or labor to enter into it.
Weeding and pruning circles constructs of belonging and worthiness. They highlight what you value at a particular state and time. Weeding is merciless. It is judgmental and controlling. It rejects a don’t-wish-to-know harmony that is already enduring. It refuses to see beyond what it wants to see. It claims, loudly and angrily, that I don’t like that kind of life here. So I eliminate it. I pluck it from sight and, if sparse and singular, I dig out its root. I often use a tool to do this. I want it to be quick and violent. My hands alone aren’t capable of such efficient destruction.
Pruning, on the other hand, seeks to help a plant you are pleased by thrive. You notice it’s deadened parts. Unalive ends have a different color and texture; they have a rigidness that does not bend when pressure is applied. There is a crisp, satisfying *snap* when removed. I always do this with ungloved hands so I can fully feel for differentiation. I perform this slowly and carefully. I don’t want to rush it and make a mistake. At the end, when my hands are full of lifeless drains of space and nutrients, I project that the bush feels relief. Thank you, I believe it says. I had been trying to rid myself of these burdens, but I didn’t know how, and it was taking too much time.
I have learned to enjoy my yard a lot this summer, and the high fence that I rebuilt last year that lets me lay in the sun, fully exposed, and read. I still walk about it and examine growth patterns regularly, and take both note and action on what is struggling and what seems invasively pervasive. This outdoor space connected to my home has long served as a metaphor for my mind and perception of the world at large. This season, though, as I have deliberately chosen to venture out and about into this larger world, I have experienced everything a bit differently. The simplest reason I can attribute this change to it is that I believe my Dad is now a part of this grander universe. He still resides within me, but I sense him in a butterfly or a rustle of the trees, in a smooth and shiny protruding root, in a water that feels welcoming whether it lie still or ripple or roar. I continue to learn, Dad. I continue to try and make you proud and honor all you have given me.