Pruning Dead Limbs
- Mar 15
- 4 min read
How to move with the natural rhythms of life and death.
I woke to an arborist trimming dead limbs off the Elm Tree that lives along the fence of my house. My morning coffee was embedded with thoughts about the natural rhythms and cycles of life. Not only have I pulled the Death tarot card twice this week, but there is a Virgo full lunar eclipse on the horizon (now, today). This is a moment in time when energies are shaken up and we are being asked to let go of what no longer serves us, with grace.
This is a time for spring cleaning, cleansing, and renewal. It can be incredibly uncomfortable, and exactly what is needed to nourish the soil for seeds to take root; to compost the old and make space for the new. I am feeling this theme of death, as I prune layers of my identity that once were true but no longer resonate.
My Vermont teaching license expires soon. I’ve held this license for 13 years despite having left the profession 6 years ago when diagnosed with Lyme Disease. I kept up with the required 45 credit hours of professional development every 3 years, and applied the lessons to my new endeavors, which included mindfulness education, creative expression, and private tutoring.
But this year, the requirement snuck up on me. While I was busy moving across the country, writing two books, and starting a recovery coaching business, an email appeared to remind me I had a month to submit the learning in order to keep my license, which I currently hold in elementary education and middle grade science. I panicked. I started searching, scrambling for classes- local, weekends, online, anything! As I scanned the internet for possible trainings my brain turned to mush. The content felt foreign to me, and I felt drained and alienated, instead of inspired and motivated.
I needed to breathe. How would I complete the necessary coursework, when I was already engrossed in so many other, more aligned, endeavors? Why would I commit my time, money, and energy to maintain a license in a profession I was no longer pursuing? What would it mean if I didn’t, and instead I let go of the license?
In order to achieve this status of a highly qualified educator, a younger version of me worked double shifts as a bartender while enrolled full time in a graduate program. I then stayed with my sister in order to complete the student teaching requirement, living in a spare bedroom in the basement, and borrowing my mother’s car to make it to my restaurant shifts. I hustled my way through those years in order to attain this professional degree. Once I obtained a teaching position, I was relentless in finding nuggets of inspiration; grading papers on the weekend and interrogating every lesson and quiz in order to give my student’s the best education. Being a teacher was my life force.
And despite these memories of perseverance and success, my current endeavors don’t align with those efforts. These dead limbs of my past are begging to be cut free. My past self was wildly and ambitiously dedicated to classroom learning, and she is no longer me. My desires and dreams have shifted drastically. I no longer have the space or attention to do the work needed to keep this license, even though holding on has felt like validation for the two decades of dedication, as well as a symbol of my passion for the field and our youth.
How often do we hang on tightly to relationships, careers, or ideas of who we think we need to be in order to feel some sense of stability? Even though, we know, deep down, that we’re not happy; that it’s not our true being. These statuses become anchors to who we once were, and no matter how hard we try, we can’t force these past selves to align with the person we have become. Instead, we must follow nature’s path and allow ourselves to break free and evolve.
I’ve often wondered when a leaf falls or a branch breaks, does the tree feel grief? Or does it acknowledge its greater purpose in the cycle of life? Does it feel death as a gracious gift, or does it suffer, holding on to its grip? How do we let go? Nature models so beautifully how to do so with grace; with the acceptance and belief that something more fruitful will grow in its place. Honoring the life cycle and embracing all phases with gratitude. For none of the efforts are lost. Instead, the decay and debris become the perfect ingredients to nourish new seeds to sprout.
And so I must too, let go of what was. I thank my former self - the hardworking student, friendly bartender, and devoted teacher, for their passion and dedication to the field of education. Knowing that the knowledge and experiences of those previous times were not only lessons, but steps in my development. I thank them and embody the newest version of myself with respect, gratitude, and excitement - for what’s next.
Death can be such a gift. Allowing ourselves to prune what used to be in order to make space for the new. This shedding of old skins allows me to compost the heavy things as well as breathe new energy into fresh hopes and dreams. This uncomfortable process has brought me a deeper awareness of my true calling, as well as a deep reverence and love; for children, the process of learning, for nature, and the laws that guide us all.
In love and gratitude. Unity and peace.
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