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I was standing in our friend David’s back yard, talking with him about the difficulties of re-designing your garden. One of them is removing trees and shrubs, not because of the physical labor–though that is considerable–but because of the psychic cost.
David shrugged and said, “I don’t know–when they get to be as tall as me, and I go to take them out, it feels like murder.”
I agree with him. It’s hard. One of the old rules of gardening is that you can’t be afraid to be ruthless in achieving your vision, but one of the realities of gardening is that most of us are not ruthless and often live with less than ideal situations because we don’t want to make those changes. Or we make the changes, but feel bad as we do it.
This dynamic is interesting, because we are told by our culture that we can do whatever we want to nature, because nature is just a pile of insensate matter for us to work our will upon. Fine. But it doesn’t always feel that way, does it? Oh, well…that’s just because we’re foolish and sentimental. Right?
I don’t think so at all.
We should be respectful when the time comes to make changes in your garden. There’s nothing wrong with making changes–the trick is in how they’re made, and why.
When you remove a plant and it’s the right thing to do, and it’s done properly, it feels good. Really good. Not just on an aesthetic or practical level, but on a gut level.
You don’t miss the plant once its gone. The empty space is hardly noticeable. The garden feels more lively or, conversely, more peaceful. It’s as if energy which was blocked by that ailing or misplaced plant is now flowing again. It’s an almost physical sensation–like a fresh breeze blowing through your yard.
But when a plant, especially a tree, is removed in a thoughtless or untimely way, though, it feels like a wound. The empty space looks haunted. The wrongness is deep, and it takes a long time to fade.
There are places in my landscape (both in my own yard or my stomping grounds) which are haunted by the ghosts of plants lost. I have to turn my face aside as I walk by.
So how do you know the difference? Well, here’s the subtle part. I’ve finally figured out that it’s not a matter of right and wrong so much as it’s about how.
Nature destroys. Death is part of life. Plants come and go in the wild and they can come and go in your yard. But when they go, they should go for good reason, and you should be clear about that reason in your head.
Some decisions are easier than others. Plants which are struggling are sending you a message. If you can’t help them by simple means–like jiggering their water or applying compost– then let them go. Stop fighting the inevitable just because you have a preconceived idea that your perfect yard has to have a peach tree or roses or whatever. Or worse, that you paid good money for a plant and you’re not going to let it die. Release the stunted and the disease-prone and the perpetually wilted. They were not meant to grow there.
If you made a design mistake, such as planting a tree too close to a foundation, or planting two shrubs too close together, so now they’re crowding one another and making a sort of Frankenstein hedge, you have to correct it. Gardening has a huge learning curve. You’re going to make mistakes. It’s inevitable. You have to fix the problem.
If the plant in question is thriving, full of rude health, not poorly placed but not fitting into your future plans, meditate on that. A thriving plant–the kind that doesn’t seem to need any care at all–is a blessing in any yard. Can you work with it somehow?
If you can’t, that’s okay. It’s just respectful to acknowledge and reflect on the fact that it is a strong plant growing in a location well suited to its needs. It may be in the wrong place at this time, but you can learn from this mistake, and come to know that particular species better. You may also gain insight into what types of plants like the conditions in your garden.
When you’ve made your decision, whether the plant is healthy or ill, go out into the garden and have a talk, both with the garden as a whole and with the individual plant or plants you are going to remove.
(You may feel silly doing this, but you know, KonMari would have you do this with your socks and old mobile phones and IMHO it’s a heck of a lot less silly to do this with plants than with your household clutter.)
Speak from your heart. Don’t be embarrassed. Explain your vision, addressing the entire garden as a totality. It is made up of many different layers of life, and all of them will be effected by what you do. Explain that you are working on a plan which will bring more life and beauty to your little corner of the world and serve the greater good. Doing this might clarify things in your own head a bit, too.
Thank the specific plants which you will be removing for all they have done, for their beauty, for their fruit, their shade, for the homes they’ve given the birds–whatever you have witnessed.
Apologize for what you have to do, acknowledge the seriousness of the act, but don’t feel guilty. Instead, feel the rightness of it. Plants understand community and the greater good. We’re the ones who need schooling on that front. If you’re acting with good intent, they’ll understand.
If it feels right to you, you could make a little thanks offering. For instance, you could put out seed for birds, as a token gift to the garden as a whole. You could take a Native American tact and offer a pinch of a dried, sacred plant. You could burn incense. You could send up a prayer of thanksgiving. You could invoke St. Francis. Your intention matters more than the specific action–you are giving thanks.
If you do these things, you’ll find that when you take up your clippers, axe or saw, you’ll feel a lot better. You’ll be working with the flow of your garden, not against it. The work will go easier, and you’ll end the day feeling that you’ve done well.
Remember, your yard wants to thrive. It wants to be beautiful and it wants to work with you to make that happen. Trust in that. Be your garden’s respectful partner, not its petty emperor.