Rich, fertile soil, a shining sun, chance encounters: these all add up to possibilities. But one day of sun isn’t enough to encourage the budding of a dormant bush. Most of my garden is budding, flowering, blooming and generally running over with life. My pomegranate is not. After a reminder that the pomegranate, in Armenian lore, is a symbol of rebirth/resurrection, I re-examined my once leafy but slightly stunted tree. No visible signs of life today.
I gathered up my Felco pruners and two litres of water, took a deep breath and snipped at one twig, confirming its state of lifelessness. The pomegranate, like many other fruit-bearing trees, has thorns, some of which are long enough to be mistaken for branches. However, I was wearing my glasses, otherwise, I might have given up my search for life and consigned this treasured plant to the compost heap.
I cut again, deeper toward the main stem. Green. Another cut. Green again. On a slant, across the dry, brown growing tip of the stem. Green, lush, vibrant.
Cutting out the dead wood and finding the essence of the thing is just one of the joys of creation.