Day 1: Pulling

Among golden moneywort, creeping thyme, and flagstone rocks in various shades of blue and grey, grows bermuda and crab grasses, competing for ground. Feeling awareness of the duality I assign to this space–“good” plants, “bad” plants, plants that deserve space, water, and air, and those considered “weeds”–I pull anyway, envisioning cascading tendrils of yellow and green that will emit an aroma upon a step. An ideal I strive towards: no pointy blades, no ugliness. Again, aware of the duality I capitulate–beauty, ugliness, perfection, imperfection, yes, no. I pull as a kind of meditation, breathing love into the plants I deem not worthy, knowing that this is all a metaphorical process for the sangha that I seek within. The community of plants I want in my garden, the community of plants that I do not, become a part of that journey.

Community, home, peace, balance. Amidst complexity.

I do not wish to be exclusive, but I also know that what sustains me, softens me, allows me to inhale more deeply and exhale without effort, cascades. Is soft. And possesses many hues and smells. So, I make room for it to grow.

The process is exhaustive. Continual pulling. On knees. I hear cracking. Feel pangs of sensation in my back. I could pay Monsanto for the appropriate weapons of mass destruction. But the very idea of eradication implies there is an end. And that there is a battle to be fought. There is no end, only continuous relationship and process. And no battle, only surrender to what is. So, I breathe love into the process and make friends with it. Wear no gloves. And venerate the dirt under my fingernails.