Handful of Weeds, Handful of Seeds

Here is some good news in the midst of much bad: the California poppies are beautiful this year.  Part of me doesn’t want to start a post this way; it seems trivial when immigrant children at the border are pulled from their mother’s arms.  I try to remember, though, that this is my dualistic mind at work; it always defaults to either/or thinking.  A contemplative mind, on the other hand,  is comfortable with apparent opposites.  It acknowledges that  it is terrible that this is the state of our country now. And it also knows that it’s beautiful that the poppies are thriving.  “Both/and,” not “either/or.” I hold each of these truths close.

The poppies have been blooming for weeks now and are still going strong.  I first noticed the poppies on our property about four years ago, that first spring after we moved to this mountain village. A few of them popped up by the side of the road on the strip of land that lines our small street.

Since then, each year, I’ve helped them by pulling the bad weeds that grow with them. These weeds have official names, I know, but in my mind they are just Velcro weeds, clover burr weeds, and foxtail grass with the occasional star thistle thrown in, too.  Also, I’ve fought against the stinky, invasive breath of heaven trees, whose mission seems to be world domination.  Wherever they pop up, I pull them out.

I hate these bad weeds. They are ubiquitous, showing up wherever the land has been disturbed and ignored.  Our home was a vacation home for years. I think the past owners dealt with weeds by simply whacking them down once or twice a season when they got out of hand.  This perhaps is not the best strategy for caring for a place and nurturing the native plants that are supposed to be there.

Tending these poppies has been a journey.  They have spread over the years. But their growth has been slow.  And the weeds are still there. Every year,  I nurture the poppies and deal with the weeds. It’s been a solitary job. For some reason, I’ve had a hard time convincing my sweet family members to come out and weed with me. So I do my best, pulling one handful of weeds at a time.

In the spring and summer, I strive to get out in the yard every day. Not just in my poppy patch, but the rest of it, too.  We have about an acre, though much of it is on a steep hillside and is covered with berry bushes.  Removing the berry bushes and restoring native plants? That’s a dream for another year.  Today, though, where I can, I go outside, so I can see this place, be in it, show up for it. I pay attention. Each day, I pull my handful of weeds. Some days, I also scatter seeds, gifts from my friend, the native plant expert.  Other days, I boil a kettle of water to pour on the pesky breath of heaven trees and the deep-rooted weeds that refuse to die.

Little by little the weeds are diminishing and the poppies are flourishing.

A handful of weeds, a handful of seeds, a kettle of water.  It’s how I try to restore this barren landscape, one day at a time.

Because it’s not mine, not really. It belongs to the deer, butterflies and insects. It belongs to the bear that feasts on plums in the fall and leaves big piles of fertilizer afterwards, his way of nurturing the land. It belongs to the mountain lions and the fox family that make their home in the tree at the end of the street.

I want to be a good steward of this land. I want to do my best to love it.

Some days when I go out, it seems like there is a whole new crop of Velcro weeds flourishing. It doesn’t matter that I was just out the day before, clearing them. They seem to appear overnight. That’s OK, though.  It’s OK, because I am committed to this little patch of earth, and each day is another chance to pull a handful of weeds.  Somehow, it makes a difference.