wild weeds, wild women

Weeds are a mystical sort of thing. Most people want to pull them up out of their gardens immediately, piece by piece. They’re a nuisance. A distraction. Uninvited, untamed, and ultimately unwanted. But what most people don’t see is that if you let them go, if you let them flourish as they are, they become something entirely different – a wild, entrancing, and indomitable force. A blanket of green, a sea of leaves, an entirely new creature that is, when you accept it, overwhelmingly beautiful. No matter what your landscape developer believes.

I spent this morning digging up weeds. Hundreds of weeds that have nestled themselves between stones and pebbles in a meditative rock garden. Left to their own devices until now, they’ve completely taken over the space. They have grown with wild abandon, fusing as one flourishing, soft cushion of green.

I know that there will be great beauty there once all the weeds are gone, but as I sat in silence, taking in each one, I realized how nice it was to sit there within them, accepting them. As I moved deeper and deeper into the patches of green, I found I could position myself on a rock the size of an 5×7 photograph, my legs crossed yogi-style, undeterred by the amount of dirt that was beginning to stain my black cotton leggings. This process gave me a great deal of time to think, to dream up new stories, new lines of prose, new possibilities for pieces already started. I thought about how digging in the dirt builds character, within us, and through us. These moments also provided me a lot of time to contemplate the beauty of those weeds that I was destroying, not allowing them to be what they were intended to be.

I realized that I was beginning to love those weeds. I loved the little blossoms that grow at the tips of their stems; the fresh crisp scent of the bundles of sprouts; the wild and tangled mess of them all embedded as one in that patch of ground.

Wild things should be allowed to grow and flourish. Pretty things might look nice on the outside but that doesn’t make them the best. The entrancing beauty of roses is deceptive. Roses have thorns. And I have the year-old scars to prove it.

So don’t be a rose. Be a wildflower. Be a weed. Be the messy mess of who you’re meant to be. Get tangled up in yourself and whatever it is that makes you unique. And just let it go. Let it blossom. Be wild, woman.