Weed War Wake Up Call

I was more than a little hot and bothered. I found myself slamming doors and fist-fighting with the air like an enraged extra in an action movie. Thoughts of my incredible bravery and persistence, my amazing willpower and fortitude—spinning and spiraling right alongside a healthy dose of why me, why now, and why has everyone let me down and ruined my day. My intentions were squashed—visibly, publicly, forcibly. There was no denying that now was not the time to tackle this project, and yet, there I was: very determined and extremely grumpified.

What on earth happened, you might query…? What disaster could possibly send my calm packing for a long weekend in the woods of my brain, hiding in a dark cave away from the storm? Oh, Laurie, you so poised, detached and reasonable… Ha! Allow me to laugh out loud for a moment there. Seriously!?

Ok, so here’s the calamity that trashed my happy–joyous–and-free space yesterday. I am a gardener. I have a stunning property with numerous raised beds (read: controlling gardener). My design, my irrigation system, my choice of flowers and plants—and aside from the insects, diseases, and deer—very successful, beautiful, and healthy. I fancy myself a relaxed, easygoing gardener, handling all challenges with ease and grace. Ha! Let me laugh again—louder this time.

There’s a section of my garden reserved for experimenting, it is most vulnerable and not "raised." It hovers between the driveway retaining wall and the woods—a three to six foot wide strip of dirt I have deemed perfect for elderberry, raspberry, verbenas, and other plants I’m testing for survivability. I’ve stopped looking up as I walk by one particular section of this patch because spotting the masses of interloping weeds is a massive trigger. In addition to the dreaded ragweed, a dead maple tree that fell over the winter is now sprawled across the space, blocking easy access to weed whack. Yes, it’s good wood for firewood—and it crushed a rose of sharon I planted. Chris promised to remove the maple and weed whack. We’re now in August—the dead fall and weeds - still there. Before I started averting my gaze, I had the pleasure (not) of watching "the weeds" grow taller and thicker, choking out and covering the dead maple like some kind of botanical crime scene.

Yesterday, for reasons unknowable, I decided it was finally time—indeed the time—to take the whacking of the ragweed into my own hands. The clock is ticking, hear it? The weed flowers turn to weed seeds, these seeds ensure next year’s weed apocalypse. The weather had been serving up excuses for weeks—too hot, too humid, too sticky—until yesterday’s cloud cover rolled in. Suddenly I was on a don’t-turn-back-no-matter-what mission to whack those green invaders into oblivion. I suited up: long pants, bug socks, Bogs, insect-proof long sleeved hoodie, gloves, wide hat. Basically the hazmat version of a garden party outfit.

Chris, trying to help, prepped the bushwhacker-on-wheels for me. I, knowing better (ha), insisted on the “more manageable” wand whacker. Spoiler: I was wrong. Two minutes in, the cords were tangled, mangled, and too short to do anything. Poor Chris tried to fix it; I promptly re-mangled it.  I was raging! 

Blame – Anger – Spin… Repeat.
That cycle continued for a bit… full-force suffering on steroids.

I finally gave up and came inside, sweaty and pissed. I stripped down and headed for a shower—no, I decided, I’d take an Epsom salt bath. Been meaning to. That didn’t work out either. No hot water. WTF?! And there is a HUGE and maybe-for-another-day realization about how this suffering state of mind just attracts more suffering… negative attracting more negative. It’s a spiral, and this was a bright-ass example. 

Somehow, sanity managed to break through the surface. I took a fucking DEEP breath and let the emotions flow—Focus, Acknowledge, Release (FAR—a recent acronym I came up with.) I SAW MY PART. (Emphasis on the MY, chicky. Take responsibility, Hello!?) Multiple doors in the hallway of my brain creaked open—yes, that hallway, the one lined with doors, each leading to a different, hopefully less sufferable perspective and action choice. I love the notion that anger can open alternate doors in that hallway—and maybe that’s its whole purpose. Just sayin’. Avoid, stuff, preload… then anger blows it all open and clears the way back to calm.

And here’s the plot twist. This morning, I marched down to the crime scene with my plant ID app*, ready to bag and tag this ragweed menace in its full Latin glory so I could roast it here with scientific precision. Guess what? Not ragweed. Nope. My mortal enemy was primarily Canada goldenrod. And here’s the kicker — I somehow don’t mind goldenrod. Why? Apparently I’ve decided it’s “pretty” enough to live. Ragweed gets the death sentence, goldenrod gets a vase. Turns out I’ve been running a full-on botanical beauty pageant out there without even knowing it. The rest of the “contestants” were a wild and wonderful collection of evening-primrose, mugwort, wild bergamot, pink-frosting Beebalm, and everlasting pea — basically a totally wild floral flash mob. The clouds lifted, the air cleared, and I swear angels started singing Hallelujah somewhere.

Why did I take goldenrod for ragweed? Oh… right. Because I didn’t look carefully. Because I’d already cast the villain in this drama months ago. Apparently I’m blind—especially when I’ve pre-written the script in my head and handed out the costumes. And yes, even covered in weed shrapnel and dripping sweat in my garden hazmat suit, I still worry about looking good — or at least looking like I know what I’m doing. Apparently, the beauty pageant isn’t just for the plants.

​So maybe the real lesson here isn’t about weeds, or anger, or even the whacker. Maybe it’s about how powerless I am when I barrel in with my mind already made up. How fast a perfectly lovely patch of nature can start looking like an enemy camp if I’m wearing my “hostile takeover” glasses — and how my so-called logic is basically me playing judge, jury, and executioner in a backyard beauty pageant.

​If you’re “pretty” like goldenrod, you get a vase. If you’re “ugly” like ragweed, you get the axe. And how sometimes — if I stop swinging long enough to actually see — the thing I’ve been battling turns out to be a peace-loving, totally harmless, maybe-even-worthy-of-a-vase group of wildflowers. Which, by the way, are still standing out there… probably plotting their next runway walk.

And now that I think about it… maybe this wasn’t my meltdown at all. Maybe the wildflowers — or the Universe acting on their behalf — engineered the entire incident. The busted whacker, the no-hot-water bath, the whole spiraling drama… all just to keep me from mowing them down. If that’s the case, well played, goldenrod. Well played.

* My all time favorite plant ID app... and gardeners plant tracking bestie... PictureThis. Check it out if you care to.

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