It’s just a little weed

“The spirituality of pulling weeds in your garden” suggested by the dear Rhonda B.

My gardening kit is in a basket. It one of those flatish, gently curved baskets that will have fragrant, long-stemmed flowers, snipped on an angle and gently laid inside to be brought into the Downton Abbey kitchen and lovingly arranged in a crystal vase.

My basket flowers are …

• a trowel,
• weed poky-thing,
• clippers – only Fiskars, the best –
• 3 sets of gloves with the fingertips worn through, a set of hefty, all leather gloves that can handle the molten lava of my moss rose bush,
• knee pads,
• these huge shears for the accidental trees I will encounter because I turned my back for a moment that was actually a month, and
• a random scrap of paper that could be a McDonalds receipt, grocery list or stock certificate.

I leave the scythe and rake in the house but I bring the shovel and broom out with me.

I’ve been pulling a lot of weeds lately.

• The weeds that are choking out my roses and peonies.
• The weeds that are blocking my voice.
• The weeds that clog the mechanism of reinvention.
• The weeds that represent how quickly the green world takes over when I turn away for what seems like just a short, few moments.

There is never a circumstance in which pulling weeds is not spiritual. It’s clearing, reactive, pro-active, meditative, frustrating, horrifying, rewarding, and endless.

Weeding is always a time warp.

• It’s endless hours within minutes of irritation.
• It’s also suddenly dinnertime when I just finished breakfast.

Goals? Sure. That happens. That’s a prompt. Then, I have dirt impacted under my fingernails. Soon, my back aches. I stop for a rest, my dog on guard from a sunny spot between me and the street-side gate, and I see all of the things that still need to be done. And, my dog in the sun.

• Sometimes, I snap weeds off above ground when it’s all about looks.
• Sometimes, I dig up the root and then give up and start snapping close to the ground.
• Sometimes, I dig up the root.
• Weeding never results in anything but the need to weed more, which makes it perfect.

Do I ever accomplish the goals that impelled me off my bum into the yard? No. Never. Have I learned when I’ve done enough and it’s time to stop? Yes. Usually 10 seconds after I’ve pushed my knees too hard and sweat-salt has crusted my glasses too much to see.

My Mother, who was a total psycho who ruined my life (just ask teenage-me) and an absolute badass, gardened and grew stunning roses. My step-father, who was a violent, jerk-face, ignorant drunk (until he started sponsoring people in AA), crafted exquisite bonsai trees. Sometimes the dirt, sun and the smell of green was the only thing between them and their worst selves.

After I finish a weeding session, I will look out the window or pop open the door and gaze at the space. I need that distance in order to process what I’ve done. I need to have taken a shower and put on clothes that don’t easily lend themselves to popping back out there to do more. I need to have taken ibuprofen to dull the aches. I need to see it as a whole and in it’s individual parts.

Sometimes, that view prompts more planning. Sometimes, it simply provides a vista. Sometimes, it’s more an appreciation for that brief moment vs the weight of unfinished business.

It’s that last glance when I see the first monarch of the summer.

I’m Susan Scot Fry, the author of “A Life of Significance”. Honest, occasionally humorous and sometimes I swear.