"The wind needs to be able to move through the tree" my dad explained. "At least that's what the tree guy said. So every few years you have to cut off every third branch. That way the tree doesn't get disease and it gets nice and full."
I looked at the tree- it didn't look full. Not yet. It looked barren. A two-story clump of sticks punctuated with a few leaves. In comparison to the before-pruning version of the tree, it looked like it was missing something. And yet, according to the expert, it needed to be 'missing something' so that the health of the tree could be preserved.
You see where I'm going with this. (I know you do!)
Often my clients will come into my office because a part of their life is "diseased". It's stagnant, or unhealthy in other ways, and they can't seem to clear the rot. They know the disease well. I often don't even have to point it out- they will tell me it's there on their own. But the inevitable question becomes "What do I do about it."
And then, there is the moment of truth. The moment where things must be surrendered, before the health can be restored. The moment where the tree will feel bare. "The air needs to be able to move through the tree." I try and say in a thousand different ways. "That way the tree can withstand storms, the tree doesn't get diseased, and the limbs get enough sunshine to become nice and full."
But the bare tree is scary. It somehow doesn't add up: cut away green limbs to save the whole.
The air needs to be able to move through the trees...
Wishing you sunshine and lots of fresh air on your limbs,