While I admit to being obsessive and compulsive on some levels, I am not one of those who cannot tolerate any dust on the furniture or leaves on the lawn. Okay, I do enjoy green grass and crisp edges and there is that hopeless yearning that the weeds would stay forever young, or that I would, so that I could spend countless hours on my knees chasing them without the creaking consequences I suffer these days; but when the final furnace blast of summer wilts even the rabbits resting in the shade beneath my garden bench…I give up. If not for my trusty husband, the grass would turn brown and not even the pots of geraniums would survive.
There is a weed growing in a crevice of my front walk. It is growing bigger all the time and yet, slightly compulsive person that I am, I continually walk past it resisting the urge to pull it. There is hardly a space for purchase but it is thriving better than my pampered impatiens. That weed has tenacity. Day after day, it stubbornly clings to the aim of every weed to be fruitful, multiply and fill the earth. That weed’s got guts. If it is afraid that I might suddenly sneak up from behind and whack it, you wouldn’t be able to guess from its placidly determined demeanor.
The reason I haven’t pulled it, poisoned it or whacked it is this: I admire it, both its inner and outer beauty; I am curious to see how long it will last against the vicissitudes of nature; and I appreciate the reminder in my daily pursuits that I need a little more of that weediness in my own walk.