A winter tradition that brings me closer to myself, every year

Late February, early March. It’s that moment in the year I look forward to with almost childlike anticipation. Not because spring has truly begun yet, but because the garden is still stretching itself after winter—just long enough for me to do my annual pruning round. By now, our apple trees know what’s coming. I’m on my way again, pruning shears in hand, ready to guide their growth as best as I can.

For the past two years, I’ve mostly done it by feel. A branch here, a crossing there, creating more air, more light. I watched a few YouTube videos—those people who prune while talking as if they’re climbing a mountain—but beyond that, it was mostly intuition. And honestly? I loved it. But this year, I decided I wanted to do it better.

A thrift store find that came at exactly the right time.

Last summer, I wandered into a thrift shop with no real purpose, as usually happens. And there it was. A book that immediately called out to me: “PRUNING.” Thin pages, clear illustrations, explanations so simple even my apple trees would understand. I knew right away—this one was coming home with me.

It felt a bit like a gift. As if the book had been waiting there for me, so that next year I wouldn’t just prune with enthusiasm, but with knowledge.

The garden slows down, and I begin to read.

As winter approaches and the garden gradually comes to rest, my anticipation quietly begins to grow. It’s such a beautiful, still transition. The plants withdraw, the birds come closer, and the light hangs lower in the sky.

And me? I sit in our workspace, wrapped in a warm blanket, the thrifted book resting on my lap. Reading, but also making mental notes, occasionally smiling as I imagine those apple trees next year—probably surprised by how “professional” I suddenly seem.

Moving toward a garden that will flourish even more.

Perhaps this is what I love most about gardening: you’re never finished, never done learning, never done growing. The garden grows—but so do I.

Next year, when I stand outside again with gloves on and pruning shears in hand, I’ll be there as a slightly more refined version of myself. And I can’t wait.

What I’m beginning to understand more and more.

Standing among the branches year after year, I’ve come to realize that pruning is a beautiful reflection of life itself. A tree grows in all directions each season—full of energy, sometimes chaotic, sometimes reaching in ways that weaken it. Only by consciously returning to the basics, by creating space and removing what no longer serves, does it regain air, light, and strength.

We are no different.

We grow too—sometimes too fast, too full, too much. Our schedules, expectations, obligations, thoughts. It becomes a tangle of branches that no longer lets the sunlight through. Only when we dare to prune—what drains us, what no longer fits, what has become too heavy—does space return. Space to breathe. Space to bloom.

Maybe that’s the most beautiful lesson the garden gives me each year.

That growth is not found in more, but in becoming more intentional, stronger, and lighter.

And that sometimes, it is precisely what we let go of that allows us to truly come alive again.