The star thistle is on the move.
Last year, I noticed for the first time that it was growing on the section of my good neighbor’s yard that borders mine. We attacked it with vigor, and spent a pleasant evening together filling up our trash bags. I wrote about that night here: https://www.ordinaryholy.com/star-thistle-eyes/
The last few days, I’ve been wandering through that middle country between our houses, and have noticed it again. It’s mostly small shoots so far without the dreaded flowers. One good thing is that my weed recognition skills have improved; I can spot the soft green of the thistle stalks, especially as they are growing now in a sea of brown, because the grass and other weeds have started dying off in this hot summer season. Apparently, star thistle is a late bloomer in these parts.
Thistles that I pulled up this morning. Tomorrow, there will probably be more.
(I remember the first time my Dad visited us years ago when we lived in Ohio. He was startled that the neighborhood lawns were brown in the winter, but green in the summer. Here in California, where he lived his whole life, it was just the opposite.)
I’d be lying if I didn’t confess that it’s a little disheartening, the appearance of the star thistle shoots. But you know if you’ve been reading these reflections for any time, or watched any of my blackberry project videos (my most recent video is here: Blackberry Project Update), that for some reason, I keep wanting my weed work to be a “one and done” project. It’s true not just of the star thistle, but of all the invasive plants I’m trying to tame here: the Velcro burr weeds, the Himalayan blackberries. Also the English ivy and vinca and breath of heaven trees. Once I see them and dig them up, that should be the end of them, forever and ever, amen, right? My neighbor and I pulled up so much star thistle last year! Isn’t that enough?
Life keeps showing me otherwise.
These invasive plants don’t follow my rulebook.
(Many things don’t follow my rulebook, actually. See: Donald Trump, 45th president, for a prime example.)
But.
There is this.
I keep coming back to it.
“Do not despise the day of small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.” (Zechariah 4:10, if you want to look it up)
It’s not an easy thing, really, to hold back the spread of this invasive star thistle plant that has taken over so much of California, to build a wall, a barrier, that will keep it from moving further into our little town, which so far, thankfully, has very little of it. But it’s not like it’s star thistle free. There is some growing on the roadside up the hill, and of course a little across the way and next door. I can’t singlehandedly eliminate all the star thistle that is already here. But what if I can guard my area and the areas closest to me, erect a boundary, a safe space of sorts, to keep it from spreading further?
Impossible to know if my efforts will be enough, if they will matter.
But plants are plants, and they grow one at a time. It seems like if I am faithful to the process, if I keep showing up, that they won’t be able to gain more of a hold here. I can watch for the plants that grow close to me, that are mine to pluck. If I do nothing else for this place where I am blessed to live now, I will try to do this small thing,
Star thistle is what is in front of me. It is my small beginning.
I wonder if there is something small in front of you, that you could do, that would be a very small thing that no one would even notice, but that would help? Help the butterflies, or bats, or birds? What could you plant? What could you sow? Who could you call? Might it be so small that nobody but a neighborhood hummingbird would notice?
(Not that I am anybody to tell anyone that they need to do anything. Nope. Not that. You do what you are called to do. But just don’t avoid doing something small, something seemingly unimportant, because it’s, well, seemingly unimportant. Saint Mother Teresa said it best, that we can do no great things, only small thing with great love.)
So I am going to keep pulling up the star thistle shoots. I’m also going to buy as many California poppy seeds as I can for planting in the fall. Also, milkweed seeds and plants for the butterflies. I will keep the hummingbird feeders full and pick up litter when I find it on my cemetery walks. It doesn’t seem like much in the big picture, where the days are warming, and the nights are warming, and the planet is warming. But I cling to the hope that my small beginnings (all our small beginnings) will somehow make a difference, that they will help, that they matter.
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