It’s hard for me to type this because this weekend I took out my frustration on my garden (“garden” being a very generous word for my overgrown backyard) and vigorously ripped out weeds, tree roots and also the better part of two fingernails. Turns out that you’re supposed to use gloves.
I pulled out the weeds that don’t flower and kept those that do and I know that’s not the way you’re supposed to do it, but I can’t stop myself.
I leave the dandelions. I protect the morning glories. I ignore the spreading daisies, the buttercups, and the creeping bindweed. I know they will crowd out the asters. I know they wrap tightly around the yellow bells and if given the chance they will strangle the wild roses. But I can’t seem to judge one more worthy of thriving than the other.
I have made my own bed and it is filled with cheerful madness, and pretty, deadly things, and a ticking time-bomb of future floral battles, and angry looks from neighbors and I can’t seem to help myself.
I don’t know if this is something to be proud of, or a symptom of my mental illness…but it’s a very colorful one, at least. The buds that sprout in the cracks of the foundation…the flowers that bloom in spite of it all. They are tenacious and unrelenting in a world that wants them gone…and how can that not be something to learn from?
We should all be that insistent.
We should all be that unapologetically glorious.