Weeds

Even before the last of the snow melts, the first spring flowers appear, but they’re not crocus. In my yard they are the royal blues of strangler ajuga and the fleecy white dots of chickweed. Tiny, tiny flowers on tiny, tiny weeds, green and blooming and smothering any emerging tulips and daffodils. The 2010 weed battle has begun.

Weeds, I think, are like chronic disease. I’d not had experience with chronic illness until this year, but I have years upon years of weed wisdom. If I’ve not yet come to terms with my illness, I have understood the purpose of weeding in life. I think the strategies I use for weeds apply directly to managing illness.

My first rule of weeding is to never give up. To stop weeding is to lose all hope of flowers. My second rule is the direct opposite of this, to never expect success. To weed believing I could actually clear the flowerbed is futile, a recipe for frustration. No matter how many weeds are pulled or how thickly mulch is piled, the weeds will return.

Living with such futility could lead to despair and I admit to dark moments of depression this past year. With my health I have been like the homeowner who avoids gardening by heaping a bed with lava rock and placing a lone juniper at center. It’s a workable strategy for landscaping and not all that ugly. The rock has a warm color and the juniper, if dull, is often not dead. Not dead is good. I’m newly enthusiastic about not dead these last few months.

But not dead is not living, just as lava rock mulching is not gardening. There is a third rule of weeding I follow and if I’m to stave off sadness, I have to learn to apply it as well. The rule is to fully accept the true purpose of gardening. Gardening is for the doing, not the having. I do not garden to have flowers. I like flowers, but that’s not the goal. I garden to do something rhythmic and eternal. I schedule weeding, I pick a bed, I begin to dig.

At first my thoughts wander, but after a few minutes I actually see each weed, noticing its leaves, flowers, roots; attacking each with a different strategy. I know the weeds better than the flowers I protect. If it is a good day then after a while not even the weeds remain in my mind. It becomes blank. I hear, see, smell, touch all, but filter nothing. My mind is open. And I fill with joy.

Above: Rose Campion, acrylic on canvas, 20 x 36 inches. Copyright 2007 ptw. The rose campion is a common weed here, cousin to velvetleaf, but so beautiful I encourage it, rather than pull it.