The Weeds in Me

I’ve never liked gardening metaphors. Gardening as therapy, an enjoyable hobby, or a way to relax has always mystified me. It’s a funny reaction, too, because my childhood is overflowing with happy memories among fruit trees, glorying in a bounty of blueberries, raspberries, apples, peaches, plums, and pears. While I groaned about picking them and hated stepping on the squishy rotten fruit left too long under the trees, I adored having delicious, fresh, ripe fruit at my fingertips throughout the summer and frozen or dried fruit to devour during the winter.

I reveled in my Dad’s gloriously maintained garden, filled with a beautiful array of flowers. Even though the garden itself was Dad’s hobby, I always felt a thrill when people complimented us on our lovely yard. Dad was a true gardener, creating eye-catching contrasts of color, meticulously picking nefarious weeds, and enjoying the beauty Washington rain created in contrast to the blistering sun of his native Tuscon. I always imagined being surrounded by flowers and fruit at my own home one day, caring for a garden just like Dad.

We lost our gardener to cancer when I was 14. The yard deteriorated with his health, although he still gardened when he was able. Without Dad, the yard became a duty and weeding a painful, burdensome chore. Grief stole the joy of a freshly mowed lawn. Summer blueberries – highly anticipated all winter – somehow tasted less sweet. leaving a solitary tartness on my tongue. Over time, I resented the yard, seeing it only as work, and closed myself off to my sorrow in its gradual decline.

Fourteen years later, I found myself standing on the deck of my first home, looking out over my first yard, ironically chosen by my husband because of it’s large lawn and abundance of trees. The previous owners cared for this home for 40 years, tending to a myriad of flowers and shrubbery in their retirement. I imagine that they added a pop of color here, a bit of contrast there, each year until a gardener’s delight surrounded them.

I felt the same old disdain creeping up at the prospect of caring for all those tender plants, claiming a hatred of hand cramps and back aches, as well as a black thumb. I attacked weeds half-heartedly, more apt to sink my bare toes into the cool grass and chase my toddler in the hot sun than to do any serious yard work. August quickly crept into September and my little family loved our yard. We reveled in the shade of the trees, bought a kiddie pool, and mowed the lawn often enough, ignoring the weeds slowly sneaking in. It didn’t matter for long anyway, because fall and winter came soon enough.

When our second summer arrived with a full season of yard care ahead of us , we quickly realized we were “those neighbors.” You know, the ones who don’t care for their lawn often enough and let weeds overcome their plants? Tim’s work life kept him busy and I was chasing a toddler around, irritated by the state of our plants, but dismayed by the prospect of caring for them.

We eventually realized that our yard needed an intervention. Rows of plants needed to be removed, even some lovely ones. We couldn’t bear to remove the roses, so we let them be, a beacon of unrealistic expectations . Friends helped pull weeds, companionship making the task more bearable and new grass emerged in their place. Our poor neighborhood reputation diminished a bit as we started to gradually purchase the tools needed to trim the bushes, replant grass, and tackle weeds more efficiently. Despite all of this, yard work remained ever a chore, never fully satisfying, better ignored.

Call it spring cleaning fever or temporary insanity, but this year Spring arrived and I found myself longing to do things differently. For the first year in a long time, I felt unencumbered by the limitations of pregnancy or a demanding newborn. Free from these excuses, I decided to apply my efforts to our yard full-force.  I began with the weeds in the beds surrounding our home, digging my fingers in the dirt, yanking the intruders at their roots.

Next, I became more persistent and moved to weeds under the deck, always left alone because of their sheer numbers and location. Baby would go down for a nap, kids would begin to play, and I would tackle those pesky plants. The satisfaction I felt clearing those weeds, pulling out the especially deep roots, and witnessing the drastic change made by their removal, surprised me. The kids would call to me to push them on the swings and I’d respond, “Just a minute,” unable to keep myself from excavating for long.

My strangest moment came when I decided to take out the poor, neglected rose bush, lovely in its prime, but pathetic under our neglectful watch. I pulled at the easy plants around it first, then applied myself to the rose bush and its long, twisty roots. The first night, I couldn’t do it. I followed those roots, pulling, groaning, digging with all my might, but they resisted. I left them overnight, expecting to let my husband remove them, but found myself at them once again the next morning, wetting the ground, problem solving, digging with all my might. Tim ultimately pulled the most difficult root, but I felt proud of all I accomplished, freeing that rose from it’s pitiful demise.

I experienced my real gardening as a metaphor for life moment attacking more deep-rooted plants at the side of the house. I had trouble distinguishing desirable plant from lost cause and, in my eagerness and ineptitude, pulled flowers worth keeping. Despite this mistake, I managed to keep a few while demolishing undesirables nearby. Sometimes I dug too deep and ran across a nearby immovable tree root. Other times, I simply could not remove a plant entirely, so I cut it severely back, hoping that one day it could come back more beautiful if lovingly cared for.

Lost in my thoughts, those plants became metaphors for me and my life.The possibilities were endless and I wrote a long, detailed blog post in my head about how they represented different stages of my life, finally arriving at who I am today – weeding out my imperfections, sometimes pulling at the good stuff in my efforts to excavate the bad, deeply rooted in some good things, rooted poorly in others. It was exactly the blog post I would never read.

Laughing a bit at my serious musings, I suddenly found myself imagining my father kneeling in his flower beds, lost in thought, and wondered what he contemplated as he dug his hands deep in soft dirt. For the first time, I felt connected in a small way to his passion and understood what drew him to plant, prune, dig, bend, water, and then do it again. Perhaps he saw himself in those plants too, recognized his own weeds, planted his own roots of faith and hope. Maybe he reveled in the challenges; the pricked fingers, dirt in his nails, back aches, and sunburns all battle scars . Did he look over his yard and say, “I did this,” deeply satisfied by his accomplishment?

I looked around at my own yard, weeded into submission, free from sad, untended flowers, bushes trimmed in a morning drizzle because I couldn’t bear to wait. It certainly wasn’t a masterpiece or even completely finished. My efforts represented more of a clean slate then anything else and I am not certain if I’ll simply tend it as it is, more grass and bushes then floral, or attempt to gradually add more plants along the way. Either way, I am determined to discover the freedom and satisfaction that comes not only with depleting weeds,  but with  keeping them at bay and discovering the beauty that emerges unencumbered.

At the end of the day, as I washed the dirt and grime from my hands, I felt lighter, unburdened, at peace, certain I’d somehow weeded more than my yard that week.