Weeds

Weeds

I just spent two hours pulling weeds.  They are so obnoxious.  And they are hideous.  And they are constant.  Weeds are a perpetual eye sore.  They are also a lot of work.  And as I sat there pulling weeds, just as I did last month, and the month before, I remembered a conversation I had recently.  A conversation about weeds.  My girlfriend said something to me about how weeds are nature’s purest form of adaptability.  She said that flowers wilt and die, but weeds remain, season after season, weeds are always there.  “Be a weed”, she said.  “They’re survivors.” 

Flowers

My mom has this flower garden.  It’s amazing.  It’s full of color and life.  I have no idea how she got so many different types of flowers to grow together in the same climate.  Those flowers are her life.  She does right by them every day.  She’s up at five in the morning to water and sing.  She shelters them from the weather.  She’s back out there at seven at night to water again.  She shades them.  She feeds them.  She houses them.  They are like her children.  And when one of them suffers, she cries.  Her flowers are beautiful and they thrive.  My mom always says about her garden, “I just give them water and love, God does the rest.”  I love that about my mom.  She gives everything she has to something, only to give the credit for her efforts to someone else.  But let’s be honest, she is right.  It is the universe who has the final say in what lives and what dies.   And flowers die.  It’s just a fact of life.  But weeds…weeds never die.  EVER. 

Dichotomy

Culturally, we have found a way to compare women to flowers.  We name our little girls things like “Rose” or “Iris” or “Lilly.”  We liken beautiful women to bright, vibrant blossoms.  But those blossoms dwindle if they aren’t adequately tended to.  Weeds, on the other hand, require no special treatment.  Weeds don’t demand lavish meals and expensive shelter.  Weeds just grow.  And when somebody pulls or tugs at them, they come back shortly after.  They are versatile.  And as much as I hate them in my garden, they serve a purpose.  They remind me to protect that which I have invested in.  They remind me that everything that is beautiful is worth fighting for.  They remind me, that adaptability is perseverance.    

I’m a Weed

As I sat defending my flowers from their mortal enemy, I looked up at the rest of my yard.   I saw the zucchini that I sowed from seed back in February that is now bigger than my child.  I looked that the grape vines that I pruned to the stump in April that, since, have taken over the entire fence line. I looked at the blackberry bushes that I couldn’t kill with bleach and fire if I wanted to.    I looked at the hydrangea that I was protecting from the weeds I was pulling.  I realized that everything I am surrounded by is strong and resilient.  Then I started thinking past the yard...Turns out that everyone I am surrounded by is the same way.  The people I love are fighters.  They have overcome adversity.  They have had to find a way to grow, despite being stifled.  They are weeds.  And so am I.  Then, I remembered that even weeds blossom, from time to time.  In that moment of clarity, I realized that even though weeds are often cursed, and at best, they are considered a pesky eye-sore, they are also survivors.  I’d rather be a weed than a flower.  Not only is the life expectancy longer, the quality of life is better when you don’t have expectations of being taken care of.