This year things are going to look different thanks to the twin blizzards visited on us here in Maryland. It did some ham-fisted pruning, ripped tree limbs half-off, smashed aged boxwood, halved the density of yews. It’s a misery when you lose a venerable tree or treasured shrub and a loss for the local wildlife. The golden juniper at the south kitchen window gave us a close-up and personal view of more than one warbler family as well as various avian tourists over the years, but it's going to have to come out. The old holly on the east side, the one that was home to a family of robins where we could watch generations of fledglings take their first awkward attempts at flight, is iffy. And the now-ravaged cedar that for years shielded the fragrant bank of Hostas by the driveway may end up either having to go or be pruned to such a degree that it will completely change the light that reaches that space.
But the scattered demolishments also offer an opportunity to reassess.
Once we clear away the fallen, we need to look at things through new eyes. Can the cedar be saved? Do we want it to be? Or will its absence give that corner a new look, new possibilities? Will the holly have to come down? Its absence would let sun into the east windows in winter, (a blessing), but would also add unwelcome heat in the summer. Or will we be able to prune judiciously to give it new life?
It’s always a jolt to be forced to change just when you think you have things just as you want them. But it’s also a reminder that life is change. Nothing is static. Even rocks are made up molecules that are made up of moving parts. Being forced to adapt keeps our sinews working, stretching, as unwelcome and difficult as that can sometimes be. But first, the chain saw.
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