nature's pruning
it's a metaphor for burnout, the sequel! in pt 1 the branches snap. in pt 2 there are too many.
Our nectarines were small this year.
I thought I’d done everything right. I propped the branches with wood planks to prevent breakage like the year before, I treated the fungus at its roots in the winter, watered it heavily on hot days and picked off rotting and shriveled fruit as early as I could. The little red, shiny skinned fruit fit perfectly in the palm of my hand; far too small compared to the previous year’s incredibly sweet harvest.
It was a cool summer. My fiancé, Sam, comments, placating? Assuring? Who’s to say.
I finally eat one and it’s tart, almost as if it’s not quite done growing, but they’re falling off the branches in squishy swaths. I can’t keep up with picking them off the ground, let alone the ones on the branches. They’re ripe, for certain; they drop like water balloons, splattering pulverized orange fruit onto the fences.
I step back for a better look at the tree in it’s whole, slipping on a flattened nectarine underfoot and catching my balance, grateful I’d worn sandals rather than opting to go barefoot. The tree is so much taller know than when we first moved in, its shimmering leaves reaching up nearly the height of the house, its full branches sprawling to the width of the yard as they bow with fruit. I’d pruned the tree to help lighten it some, careful to only snip branches fruitless to preserve as much fruit as possible, some pre programed scarcity mindset in my subconscious requiring each nectarine to make it to the consumption stage.
My pruning methods were not fruitless, I have baskets and bowls piling high with tiny, tart nectarines that are days past ripe. I could make another round of jam but that sounds like more work than I have time for. I’m grateful for daylight savings giving me time in the evening to garden, finding time during the day seems impossible. When I do have my one day off for the week, I find it takes more from me to get out of bed or off the couch than usual, the balance of working two jobs weighs me down more on my day off than my days on.
You pruned it this year, right? Sam interjects, a nectarine in his hand, the tart juice running down his arm.
Yes, I did.
Sam looks at the tree. Maybe you didn’t prune enough? How much did you cut off with fruit still on it?
None. I replied, defensiveness creeping upon me as I crossed my arms. I wanted to keep as much as we could.
There’s your problem, honey. Sam chucks the pit across the yard into the open compost pile. You have to prune some with the fruit, otherwise the rest won’t grow as big or sweet.
But I want to have more fruit, so we can share it and cook with it and eat it, to save money.
Do you want to share what we have now?
The baskets of sour nectarines mock me from the back porch. They’re already rotting on top of one another just moments after being picked. The compost pile has its own harvest of fruit that didn’t even make it off the ground, I ended up sweeping a whole pile of nectarines towards the worms for consumption.
I’m reminded of the year prior, when the wind in late May caused one of the heavy branches to snap. I lost a third of the fruit on the tree. Early June, I quit my job. That summer, unemployed and out of school, I retreated to the garden for slow mornings reading, writing, tending to the garden and eating the sweetest nectarines the tree had ever produced. Maybe it was nature’s pruning, the wind taking care of what I couldn’t do myself. It wasn’t just the fruit. Life felt a lot sweeter then too. Slower. Kinder. More forgiving. Did I do the thing I always do? Jump from one overstimulating fast-paced environment to a new one of my own making? How many fruits were in the air, mid juggle in my life at that moment? How many could I sacrifice to be able to slow down and eat one?
I shake my head. Sam encircles my head into the crook of his elbow and kisses the top of my head.
Next year, let’s cut some more. You know what, let’s cut some now before the branches get bigger and harder to cut and we can do another prune in the winter. Okay?
Together, we pair the tree back, cutting away at the excess.
The weekly bookstore shifts I held onto instead of quitting.
SNIP.
The biweekly tutoring sessions at the library.
SNIP.
The boxes of stuff in the garage I was holding onto incase we have a garage sale.
SNIP.
Social Media.
SNIP.
Those jeans that don’t fit anymore.
SNIP.
Standing back to admire our work I admit; things look far more balanced now.
I part with nearly half of the harvested nectarines. I make jam with my half, giving the other half to the worms. I bring in six to my work at the library, shyly embarrassed to say they are from my tree when someone asks where the nectarines came from. My shoulders don’t feel so heavy. And I have some better ideas for how to handle tomato season come August.
I wonder how much bigger and sweeter life will taste when I can pour all of my energy into a few fruits, rather than hundreds.
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