why we cut away.
she watched him cut away entire branches of her favorite tree—a tree she had come to love in their years living in this old house. piece by piece its limbs fell away to the soft earth, where they collected unpoetically.
pruning this cherry blossom tree was much like being human. through the violation, through aggressive cutting away of limbs and twigs alike—extensions of this quiet, majestic life—we dispose of that which no longer serves us. we identify the weakened pieces, the dying leaves, the bare branches, and we sever ties.
we see where we are hindered. we see which branches have taken over, blocking precious resources, and we say goodbye. injuries irrevocable. but there is hope embedded in these injuries, for we’ve made these decisions with love in our hearts. we see the potential. the splendor that hides beneath the chaos of so much neglect.
and these cuts, they must be fast and violent; this is the only way. because if we try to be delicate with such an endeavor, when we pull things away half-heartedly, in fear of causing too much pain, the branches will splinter. we’re left with broken pieces, splinters, fragments of you that can never reclaim their form. so we must make cuts clean, swift, hard. we must strip away that which has weighted us so unnecessarily.
over time, we heal. we honor where our past fell away and we marvel at our new form. we allow ourselves a period of awe, to appreciate the splendor. those pieces who grew quietly, who grew strong and patient, will know space and air like they’ve never known before. the worthy pieces—the magical leftovers—will bathe in sunlight with outstretched everything. and then we will remember what it means to breathe.
—this post was grown on the gram.