I regularly find myself in awkward positions on the ground, stretching my body to pull a handful of milk filled weeds that give me rashes and chap my hands. I can't help myself. I exchange poison spray for manual labor. There was a time when I could practically pull a thistle barehanded with minimal damage, but my sixty-two-year-old hands say enough and chap and bump and burn. Even still, I regularly find myself in awkward positions on the ground pulling weeds. I am, and, hopefully, always will be, a "weeder". It sounds weird, but often in my crouched down pain with discomfort spreading across my lower back, I say a silent pray of thanks for my weeds. They have taught me much.
Weeds have taught me how to be task oriented. They fill in one bed and then another, sometimes randomly and sometimes in heavy patches. They call out when I walk by, and only because I am a "weeder" do I hear their call. "Nanny, nanny boo-boo". Yep. That is what they say. They demand attention, and if ignored, they gather all of their friends and create large weed crowds that put their weedy voices together and yell, "NANNY, NANNY BOO-BOO"! That is when it is too late, and I am in for long painful bouts of bending, stretching, stooping and pulling. Giant garbage bags fill and get heavy as I drag them to the street. Weeds demand I stay on task, or they swamp me.
Weeds have taught me vigilance. Without vigilance, they win.
Weeds have taught me patience. Hang in there, slowly, surely, the bed will be cleared.
Weeds have always presented me with quiet time. After heeding their call and beginning the process of removing them, they stop shouting. Methodically, I work through them, quietly squatting near the earth, under the sky, often in the sun, stopping, occasionally, to lie down in the green grass and stretch out my back, staring at a blue sky with white clouds. Weeds remind me of my relationship with the earth, and though I sometimes feel dismayed at their tenacity, I always feel a certain level of thankfulness for their presence and the fact they have chosen to speak to me.
Peace. Love, Linda
Weeds have taught me how to be task oriented. They fill in one bed and then another, sometimes randomly and sometimes in heavy patches. They call out when I walk by, and only because I am a "weeder" do I hear their call. "Nanny, nanny boo-boo". Yep. That is what they say. They demand attention, and if ignored, they gather all of their friends and create large weed crowds that put their weedy voices together and yell, "NANNY, NANNY BOO-BOO"! That is when it is too late, and I am in for long painful bouts of bending, stretching, stooping and pulling. Giant garbage bags fill and get heavy as I drag them to the street. Weeds demand I stay on task, or they swamp me.
Weeds have taught me vigilance. Without vigilance, they win.
Weeds have taught me patience. Hang in there, slowly, surely, the bed will be cleared.
Weeds have always presented me with quiet time. After heeding their call and beginning the process of removing them, they stop shouting. Methodically, I work through them, quietly squatting near the earth, under the sky, often in the sun, stopping, occasionally, to lie down in the green grass and stretch out my back, staring at a blue sky with white clouds. Weeds remind me of my relationship with the earth, and though I sometimes feel dismayed at their tenacity, I always feel a certain level of thankfulness for their presence and the fact they have chosen to speak to me.
Peace. Love, Linda
