Ode to a Noxious Weed
The wild growth that resists my best attempts to destroy it has much to teach me about living boldly but mindfully
The invaders have arrived. The warm temperatures and spring rain have given a boost to the meadow that fronts my home and everything is sprouting: the maple saplings, the grasses that will grow to knee height, the young milkweed, wild mint, and the invader--Canada thistle. If one can admire a noxious weed, this would be the one.
I’ve tried eradicating the stubborn thistle having had earlier success erasing another pernicious weed from the meadow but thistle is a different breed altogether. As much as it annoys me to watch the prickly plant consume more and more acreage each year, I respect its tenacity
The thistle’s barbed leaves make it nearly impossible to touch the stems without and even with gloves. An effective defense system. Pulling them up only stimulates more growth as the roots are connected like a family tree. Touch one and you aggravate the entire clan. Weeks without rain or sudden freezes don’t deter the stalwart plants; they hold their ground even as the rest of the meadow grows brittle and brown. Only winter’s snow, and the unexpected leveling of the entire field by an ambitious but ill-advised developer two years ago, has ever put an end to the thistle. This spring, it’s back as if to snub its nose at me.
I’ve learned that every part of nature has something to teach me, even the parts that spread with wild abandon, gobbling up all the native species. The interconnectedness of the thistle’s root system reminds me that I am stronger with others to lean on. I take a lesson from its ability to thrive in any weather, knowing that I have to cultivate inner resilience to cope with whatever challenges come into my life.
Even thorniness has its benefits: sometimes it’s necessary to get in someone’s face; to be the thorn in their side despite being one of those people who avoids conflicts. My goal isn’t to “Karen-out”, but to be strong enough in conviction and my own self-esteem that I can bristle when necessary.
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The arrival of the thistle also heralds the end of a very long and frigid winter, the blooming of daffodils and the fragrant forsythia, the return of the songbirds and honking geese, and green everywhere. If there is thistle, there is spring.
Another lesson to ponder: The same sun, water, and dirt that energizes the beautiful bounty of spring and summer also ignites the less attractive and usually bothersome cousins of the natural world. The Earth celebrates fertility through abundance. Its urge is simply to produce, joyfully and fruitfully.
So now the thistle teases me to come out of my winter rest and put ideas into motion. Nurtured and tended to, I can end this season of growth with new work that fills my heart with satisfaction. There will be some thistles along the way; words that make me cringe and sentences that seem to spread in all directions and ultimately need to be cut away and discarded. Some thistles will be minor setbacks while others will be conditions happening on a larger scale beyond my control.
But the thistles are as necessary in life as they are in the meadow: they are the fences that warn me not to step into bramble without thoughtful preparation. I can be bold in expression without ignoring the danger of impaling myself on a bed of thorns.
So, I welcome the invaders and accept co-existence. They will likely outlive me, the fragile human that finds them irksome. The wild will win in the end. I am only the visitor.