Pruning of the roses is an activity that begins with hope and ends with Band-Aids. An annual reminder that, in this life, beauty rarely comes without thorns. Roses, much like people, require a little tough love if they’re going to flourish.
Pruning always starts innocently enough, encouraged by winter’s vast blue desert sky overhead. Its reward is armloads of fragrant blooms in a few short months. Yesterday, I stepped outside with optimism, thick gloves, and the sleek, sharp nippers HHH gave me for Christmas. Careful to avoid the ice still present from the snow of two weeks ago, I retrieved a trash can for the trimmings before realizing that if there is still ice on the ground, I should wait for a warmer day.
And so, pruning will wait. To prune, be prepared with thick, leather gloves, a winter-weight sweatshirt, and long pants. The smallest bit of exposed skin usually ends up with scratches and embedded thorn tips.
Always present is the great pruning debate. Just how much is enough, and how much is too much? Every rose guide says something different. Knee-high? Waist-high? Cut back by a third? Cut back by half? It takes experience and patience to learn about your own bushes, creating true art when it’s just right.
This year, HHH and I have a plan. He’ll choose the height, which, if too short, will feel reckless and, if too long, will feel lazy. His instinct and memory of last year’s blooming plants will guide him. I’ll follow to remove dead and crossing stems, removing anything thinner than a pencil. Pruning is a great exercise in respecting the opinions of your co-gardener. Last year’s blooms showed that, together, our method worked well.
Each clean cut promises new growth, while the trimmed branch remind us to trust the process. Cutting back something living while knowing it will come back stronger is Faith-Gardening at its finest.
Meanwhile, the weather plays its own little game. While creating my own Vitamin D in the desert sunshine, it felt downright pleasant, lifting my mood. But moving into the shade, it was gloves-on, visible-breath winter again. One minute I was warm and optimistic, the next shivering and wondering why I left the fire inside. Gardening, like life, requires layers
For now, the rose garden stands there, bare and unremarkable, looking nothing like the lush beauty I’m imagining. The magic of pruning isn’t about today, but about those fragrant spring blooms when you forget all about the thorns.
