It’s the dead of winter here in South Africa, and I feel it in my body—stiff, tender, conserving energy as though my own sap has turned to oil. On Saturday, I stood in the rose garden of our local nursery, listening to Ludwig Taschner, South Africa’s beloved “rose whisperer,” speak about rejuvenation. He explained how roses slow their growth in the cold, transforming their sap into oil to survive the harsh season. They rest, they conserve, they wait for light and warmth to call them back to life.
As I watched his pruning shears click and fall, I realised: perhaps I too am in a season of slowing, a quiet preparation for the next blooming.
“Look into the plant,” Ludwig said as he demonstrated how to prune. Not at it—into it. To clear the clutter from the inside out so that, when the sunlight returns, it can reach the centre of the rose. That is where life happens. That is where the magic begins.
It struck me how much this mirrors the inner journey. There are moments in life when we are called to look inward, to open space for light to shine where it’s grown dark and tangled. To ask gently but honestly: What’s alive in me? What’s lifeless and hardened?
When pruning, the first task is to cut away the dead wood—the stems that have turned hard and brittle. Ludwig’s advice was simple yet profound: don’t hesitate. The more you cut back, the more the rose will reward you with new growth, vigor, and lasting blooms. In the same way, our own lives sometimes require courageous cuts. Old habits, relationships, or ways of thinking that no longer nourish us must be gently released to make space for something fresh.
I noticed how Ludwig pruned each rose differently. Some varieties needed a hard cut, right down to the base. Others, like the prolific Iceberg, asked for lighter, more delicate pruning, leaving more stems to carry the weight of their many blooms. Isn’t this just like us? Each soul unique. Some seasons call for deep transformation, others for subtle adjustments.
As he worked, Ludwig spoke of the importance of tending the roots. Roses need loose, aerated soil—space for air and water to reach deep. I thought about our own roots, the unseen foundations of our lives. Our “soil” is enriched by compost—the lessons, mistakes, and experiences of the past—but it also needs breath, space, and nourishment to stay alive.
And then there was his story about the buckets. Ludwig has long advised against watering roses with a hosepipe, not because it’s bad for the plant but because people rush the process. The first plants get a good soak, but by the end, impatience sets in, and the rest barely drink. At one hotel, however, he noticed long lines of buckets next to the roses. The gardener explained they had proven Ludwig wrong: you can use a hosepipe if you fill the buckets first and then tip them over. Presence and care make all the difference.
As I stood among the roses that morning, I realised I was not only learning how to prune a garden—I was remembering how to tend my soul. To clear what blocks the light. To trust that, in time, the sap will rise. To honour the sacred balance of the elements: water, air, fire, and ether. Especially ether—the space between. The magic element. The place where Spirit moves, where intuition whispers, where life begins again.
Roses grow into the light. And so do we. As you stand in the garden of your own life, what might be asking to be gently pruned to make space for light and new growth? Where do you sense your inner sap has slowed—and how might you honour this season of stillness as sacred preparation for blooming again?
Still growing. Still becoming. In this together.
Sandra