If there’s one good thing about weeding, it makes the world slow down.
You can’t work on the computer, or your phone.
Unless you’re a bluetooth person.
Nothing against bluetooth people . . .
You can listen to music, but I don’t.
Sometimes I wish I were listening to music, mainly to uproot some other snippet of a pop song out of my head.
I know just what you’re sayin’.
But while weeding, I can usually think, at least a little bit.
I think about weeds.
I might even philosophize.
I could learn a lot from weeds; masters of survival, of resilience.
From chickweed, I could learn to be so useful I make myself indispensable.
From dollar weed and creeping charlie, I could learn to plant so many roots that no matter where I’m uprooted, I’d always stay grounded somewhere, and from there I could grow again.
From bermuda grass and smartweed, to let go and sacrifice a part of myself rather than hold on and risk losing it all.
From plantain, to dig in deep and hold on tight.
From prostrate spurge, to keep a low profile and adapt to grow in inhospitable places.
From creeping woodsorrel, to blend into the background when need be.
From horse nettle, to develop defenses that make it painful to threaten me.
From hairy bittercress, to far-fling my ideas in hopes they’ll take root somewhere.
And from cleavers, to attach myself to things that are going places.
From all the weeds, to thrive in poor soil and drought, where the more delicate and needy plants fail.
Too much time alone in the weeds?
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