The tree service arrived this morning at 7:15 pm. It was already hot. I had been up since 5:45 am so I could read and drink coffee in peace before the chain saws started screeching.

They took a section of my fence out, so they could get right to work. The “monkey” of the group (I’m sure there’s a technical term for his position, but I don’t know it.) who is most adept at climbing and hanging from trees got haltered and hoisted up straight away. The ground crew milled about raking and clearing, swinging ropes, and counter-balancing his tethers.

“Do you want this brush cut?” Yes, please.

“Do you want that pile of stuff cleared?” Yes, Sir.

“What about those bricks down there in the weeds? You want us to clean that up?” Would you?

“We will clean up those limbs, grind that stump, tidy that fence line, throw all that debris in a dumpster.” I’m so grateful!

I leaned against the weathered, splintered railing around my deck and watched them cut, saw, pull, and drop limb after limb thinking, “Man, we live fast.”

Within the four years we have lived in this house, even the vegetation, the trees, the shrubs have grown up, thickened, and gone wild. Limbs that did not overhang, now do and loom over our home like giant arms about to squeeze it. Bushes are unruly, and vines creep along the fence, both hiding decay and dirt. Mighty limbs grew from meager trees to form a shade-producing canopy that killed the grass, encouraged a circuit of roots to snake from tree trunks, and hindered other kindred trees to thrive. Four years.

I watched a limb fall, one we had been concerned about for a while. It would have, under just the right conditions, broken from the tree and fallen right through the roof.

If you don’t slow down, life will take you over.

If you live too fast and don’t stop occasionally to widen your focus, everything outside the periphery of your blinders will become unmanageable.

If you put upkeep on the back burner, it will require a crew, a giant dumpster, chain saws, and three days worth of work to get it back on track.

A storm could come, and you could find yourself with an unintended, untimely, poorly, and hastily installed skylight.

Those were my lessons today from the trees. When people ask me why I sold my dance studio, I will give these horticultural reasons and let them look at me with confusion as if I was the Once-ler of Lorax fame. But you understand.

I speak for the trees but really for myself. It will take time to tame the flora and the fauna (me!) around here. I am grateful for the lesson and the chance to slow down, clean it all up, and reset in a better, more deliberate and cognizant place without fear of a tree trunk landing in my living room.

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