My succulent / cactus garden began with cuttings snatched from neighbor's yards and public places. I nurtured them in pots for a bit, then transplanted them to my front yard, hoping they’d fill in. Eventually they did.
My garden's golden age was pretty and peaceful. Like when the prince and princess are done resisting each other and the fates that kept them apart are vanquished, and they live happily ever after, the end.
But there is no end in a garden. The plants keep growing. With their spikes forward, the Agave & Nopales advance steadily on the tender Jade. As space became scarce, violent, slow-motion battles played out in complete silence.
My friend and fellow gardener, Carl, is forever uprooting his plants and moving them in search of their perfect spot. I’ve been objecting to this for years, insisting that he was over-playing his humanness. I felt sure that plants were not happy travelers once their fates had been established with roots.
See a weed making do in the crack of a sidewalk, a tree entwined with a cyclone fence.
But when I woke up this morning I realized that my jade plants were counting on me to protect them. Their happiness and safety were my responsibility, and I'd been neglecting them by not using my garden-god-powers in their defense.
Right or wrong, I carried my dad’s rusty old saw out front and tried to make things fair, although I’m sure the agave & nopales would not agree with that assessment. They'd had no evil intent -- they'd only done what I’d asked of them: Grow! Live! Thrive!
None the less, I hacked off and carted away whole buckets full of their heavy limbs.
The jades didn't noticeably rejoice at the conclusion of this blood-bath (sap-bath), but I assume they are, in their own way, grateful or at least temporarily relieved.
And me? I'm covered with prickers and will probably be too sore to move tomorrow. Nothing is simple.