The Land of Cleve and Beyond

Pruning

There is a place and time for pruning, for cutting back old growth, dead and dying. Some branches sprouting in unhealthy directions, some once stable limbs diseased. And while one is at it, inspect the roots. Are they sound? Do they too need some attention? It is apt that a very significant amount of pruning of the tree that is me happened in the land of cleve. Cleft from the trunk were large branches that had grown foul and threatened the life of me. Snipped back were misguided hopes and patient, unrequited caring that stole the sunlight from more deserving leaves. Patched with tar were lacerations in the bark, the skin, that could become infested.

The process of cutting back disfigures for a time, leaving something wounded-looking to the layman’s eye, but the arborist knows better. She knows that the temporary malformations insure a stronger future, a more healthy growth, a longer living, happier tree/me.

The sharp blade of the clever, the shearing strength of the clipper, the serrated tear-cut of the pole-saw is not to be taken lightly. It is to be avoided. Tell the tree to grow straight and strong, symmetrical and well rooted! But how often is that possible? How often do you see a tree unencumbered by some accommodation to obstacles? Growing over rocks. Ducking eves. Competing for light.

Cleft from my trunk was the sickly limb of an unhealthy marriage in the land of cleve. Clipped from my hanging branches were the friendship of fellow artists who dangled too low to the ground in the land of cleve. Patched and protected, lest it loose its life, was my offshoot of pride and self respect that had been threatened by neglect in the land of cleve.

I have nothing good to say about that time except that it was necessary. Any good arborist will tell you that you have to prune in order to make room for healthy growth.

And it happened to me in the land of cleve.


Rejuvenation

The next season brings…(I all of a sudden feel like Chauncy in the Peter Sellers film).

Am I healthy? I mean my tree? No. But I have a greater potential to watch the tree of my life grow in magnificent ways than at any other time I’ve ever known. The branch I call career is stubby from the wound the hatchet of cleve administered, but it has been growing stubbornly, sprouting many small, green offshoots. And they look like they want to take off. The roots of home and hearth have doubled down in their effort to reach rich soil. The textured bark of survival has recovered from the callous knife-cuts of cleve and is growing stronger and tougher, more resilient to bad weather with every satisfied customer. And the heart-wood, that most treasured of cuts when the log is dead and kilned, is no longer in jeopardy. It has found a rich source of nourishment, which, as any arborist knows, will keep a tree alive for many hundreds of years.

I will never ever go back to the land of cleve, but I thank it for the sloughing off.