Something new had to happen, and it could, but it would take a wire brush to shift the bark. So we submit to the master gardener.
As I came to winter prune this old rose, I said a prayer.
‘Creator God, guide me as I prune. As I cut and snip, wire brush and bend, cause new growth to fill the world with your beauty and purpose.’
Ok, it may not have been so poetically put together like that, but it was the intent of my heart.
After cutting and snipping much of last season’s growth away, I reached for my bright yellow handled wire brush. Normally used for brushing the rust off steel, this was now to be used on a plant, a living thing, a rose, in fact—the queen of the garden.
I always slightly cringe when I come to pruning season. It seems such a harsh thing to do.
To cut away what has taken time and energy to put together. I always warn my gardening clients that this may seem harsh, but something has to go if they want the fruit or the flowers.
The wire brush seems the harshest to me. It’s like a full-on assault of scratching and abuse on a protective layer of the soul.
As a soft-hearted kind of person, I wince at the thought. I never like to be that harsh with any living thing.
But there is bark and lichen and moss. A callusing has built up over the seasons that shrouds the potential living underneath.
There, under self-protective layers, is a place of cellular transformation. I can’t see it with the naked eye, but I know it’s there, and all it needs to stimulate it into growth is some irritation and a little light to touch its cells.
Then ‘boom,’ multiplication begins to happen.
Cells form other cells as an explosion of beautiful growth takes place. Then, a few months later, a bud is pushing out in the spring and telling the world that it is here to display divine beauty and make a difference.
By the way, whenever I see this explosion of growth, I do a little dance.
I also, quite often, do a little dance in conversations I have with people like you.
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