How an old apple tree taught me to stop being scared of getting it wrong

There are three heirloom fruit trees in my yard. They are tall, tangled, and half-wild. I love them, and I dread them.

These trees were old and established when my husband bought the house over twenty years ago, in a subdivision that used to be an orchard, and they haven’t been well-maintained. Every spring, it’s my job to prune these vegetative beasts. Every year, I procrastinate.

The general rule of thumb for any pruning project is to trim the dead or diseased parts first, then the spindly parts, then thin out, shape, and open up the plant by cutting no more than a third of its branches. More than a third, and the plant can’t make enough food for the year. Less, and it doesn’t have enough breathing room.

Five years ago, as a large-old-fruit-tree-pruning novice, I had no good sense of what a third might look like. I took classes on restoring old fruit trees and hired a sub-par professional who did a mediocre job of pruning too late in the year. My husband and I consulted with other professionals who gave contradictory advice.

I was terrified of pruning too much, too fast. Friends told me to just go for it. Everything seemed excessive. I took action, but not enough.

The next two years, I was bolder. I took more off the top. But still, I was paralyzed by the indecision of which branch to cut and when. I would stare for hours up into the web of canopy and ponder every wrong decision I could make. There were exponential possibilities for error. After excess contemplation, I would make a cut, feel a moment of satisfaction, then look into the tangled mess again at the thousand more equally paralyzing decisions awaiting me.

I also hated climbing the pruning ladder, risking life and limb to saw off a branch of the pear tree. I had no safety goggles (rookie mistake) and I dreaded the bits of lichen that crumbled down from the grandmother apple tree into my eyes. I resented the eye-level branches on the gnarly old plum that came out of nowhere when I turned around.

Last year, I liberated myself and skipped the project entirely.

This year, I waited as long as I could to tackle the annual prune. Ideally, pruning occurs before the tree has made its decisions about leaf distribution—and hence, food production—for the year, so when a series of dry, sunny, perfectly temperate spring days appeared before my trees had started to leaf out, I took the plunge.

I got out my long-handled loppers and, without my characteristic long-pause contemplation, started in with a vengeance on the eye-level branches which were immediate safety hazards. This year, I found a more aggressive style of pruning to be cathartic. No more tip-toeing around, afraid of mortally wounding the trees with my bad decisions. I went in with confidence, if not skill.

After attacking every eye-level branch I could find, I went for spindly bits, dead appendages, and anything that just felt “in the way.” I stopped fretting. I trusted myself and I trusted the trees, and I allowed for error.
Little by little, my pruning project began to feel something like fun. I got into the flow. I let work become play. And then, my eyes opened anew.

As I gazed into the knotted mess of apple branches, the world slowed down. My awareness dropped out of my mind and into earth-time. The old apple tree began to talk to me. “Thank you for opening me up so I can breathe. I will show you what I need,” she whispered, and my vision was gently guided further up the branch to see it was twisted and cracked near the top. The whole thing needed to come off. I could stop nitpicking over the smaller stuff and help her right at the source. I didn’t have to trust only my rookie decisions anymore; I could trust the tree.

This year, it took me only a few dry days to prune all three trees.

This year, I didn’t even bother to get out the pruning ladder, just used a saw on a pole and did my best (with safety goggles this time!).

This year, I didn’t worry, criticize myself, or focus on the overwhelm and endless potential for failure.

It’s no accident that the flower essence of apple blossom is used to foster trust, connect the conscious and unconscious minds, and help people release guilt to be able to move forward in life.

This year, I trusted the trees, I trusted me, I achieved completion not perfection, and I have been rewarded with beautiful spring blossoms in open trees that can breathe.

Where do you need to do some pruning in your life?

What are you avoiding pruning for fear of not doing it right?

Where could you use a little more bushwhacking and a little less fine gardening?

What in your life is dead, diseased, spindly, or overgrown and needs to fall away?

How can you trust yourself more by trusting the impressions you receive from the natural world?

What needs to be pruned so that you can be free to blossom and bear fruit?