Sometimes you are the tree

When I lived in Korea, I frequently saw pruning of trees along side the road. The branches were systematically removed until all that was left was a very long trunk with what I would call a branch ball at the top. The trees, so severely denuded of foliage, looked like so many stumps that were just extruded on the spot. This pruning was done in the fall of the year, after most of the leaves had fallen.

I wondered why they would do this. It seemed a particularly harsh thing to do. The trees looked like grand old ladies who had had their wigs removed - there was something of majesty that remained, but there was diminishment and shame.

All through the harsh winter, these trees remained standing in their forlorn state.

And then, in the spring, something miraculous happened. Leaves started pushing out through the tops of these trunks. The tree, though dead to all appearances, was dormant. And when warmed by the gentle rays of the springtime sun, the life within could not be restrained.

Later, I came to own trees myself. I hated to prune my trees. I remembered how these trees looked when trimmed of their glorious branches, and I hated to do that to my trees. But I came to understand over the course of years of working with my trees that old woody branches harbor disease. New branches that were unruly and reached too high put undue strain on the branches below, often causing breaks that could have been avoided. And ultimately, I had a vision in my mind of how I wanted the trees to look, and I was the designer. The trees, if left to their own devices, would become wild, uncontrolled, unproductive, and probably would die.

Sometimes you are the tree, and sometimes you are the arborist.