Prudence

A few days ago I noticed that buds were beginning to swell on the three dwarf fruit trees growing in my yard. The warm winter had apparently spurred some pre-spring waking up. Myself included, as I suddenly realized I needed to attend to pruning these trees, pronto! In the old school manuals that I’ve reviewed online, the suggested trimming amount to trim a peach trees is that “there should be enough space between the branches to swing a cat!”  

For sure it’s a memorable, strange expression, but also a strange feeling, snipping these delicate, buds — how can it be right to trim off such hopeful symbols of the future? A fresh pink color on the apricot blossoms was just becoming noticeable on the tips of the buds. I guesstimate my trimming removed at minimum 500 buds. Each clip felt unsettling; you’re removing flowers which will soon be very beautiful, and further aware that each flower is a potential delectable fruit that come midsummer, could be hanging heavily from the same limbs. 

However I’ve learned the hard way that unless this is done, the trees are not as healthy, and many individual fruits won’t ripen to their full potential. I dutifully trimmed my apricot, pear, and peach trees as the wise farmers of old suggested. I also collected a few dozen of the stalks with the intact, unopened buds, brought them inside, and set them in vases. As they’ve begun to burst open, when I enter my house from work there’s a haunting, sweet scent of apricots.

And the trees still have hundreds of blossoms—with luck there may be a summer harvest with plenty of fruit to savor. Despite the seeming contradiction in cutting these beautiful jewel-loaded shoots, the trees will now pour more energy into the remaining fruit, and that fruit will also be able to absorb more sunlight to warm its fuller ripening. 

It’s funny how, well into my fifth decade, I still have to get reacquainted with such  simple wisdom: like being disciplined enough to do what may be a little discomforting in the moment for the future good. Slowly but surely, the trees have taught me. They won’t suffer for my handiwork, nor will my joy. Rather, in trusting in the longterm process and doing what’s necessary, the restorative, unending power of life is honored. Sometimes immediate appeal distracts us, and deeper beauty requires patience. Actions that at first seem to defy our delight, may eventually enhance it and offer profound rewards.