Pruning

There is something compelling about pruning plants. I discovered this a couple of years ago when I moved into an apartment that had a dying plant abandoned on the porch. It looked dead: it had four semi-alive brown, drooping leaves, a tangled mess of dead ones and vines so parched and brittle that they snapped at my touch.

But I was hopeful. I gave it a bit of water and slowly, carefully, picked the dead leaves off of the maybe-alive vines; snapped the brittle vines away from the maybe-alive ones. It took time to peel back the snarl, but as I created space in the pot, I discovered under the tangled mess a couple of struggling green babies curled, out of fear, into the fetal position. I opened the world for them: unwrapped the umbilical cord from around their necks; offered security; showed them the sky.

But the most satisfying part of pruning is not clearing space; it's snapping the dead leaves off of their vine, opening a pore from which a new bud can emerge. It simply amazes me that by burying the dead, you create life.

My plant is beautiful now, explosive really. Its leaves are the size of my hands; they have crayon green edges with spring green veins; they spill out of their 14" pot.

I find pruning to be so satisfying that once I stopped dead, in the middle of making out with someone, to prune my favorite house plant. It couldn't wait; it demanded my attention.

So, for those of you seeking hope, I recommend that you prune your plants regularly.