After three months of near jungle-like ground cover, the green carpet in the woods begins to wither away, exposing the earth beneath. Rather than humid, suffocating mornings, a chilled nip in the air occasionally greets me on at the start of a new day. And, my garden looks more like a weed bed than anything that could ever produce fresh vegetables. Like orange barrels are sign of Spring in Indiana, these are the trustworthy signs that Fall is arriving at my house.
Seasons are changing, and with the transition comes a moment of reflection. “Futility” is the word is resonating most loudly at the moment. This is not a general malaise regarding life in general, but is instead task specific. Every gardening year begins with good intentions. The anticipation begins to build are early as December, coinciding with arrival of various gardening catalogs. Seeds are ordered and plants are purchased closer to early May. The ground is prepared. Once tilled, the soil looks fresh without a sprig of unwanted growth anywhere. You can almost smell the present potential and possibility. It is a hopeful, energetic time, spurred on by the memory of past years’ produce and the imagination of what could yet be. During the first few weeks after planting, the garden’s beauty is easily apparent. Here is a piece of advice, my friends: enjoy that while you can. In time, beholding beauty will require more effort.
Soon after sowing the seeds, new life breaks forth from the ground. Tender plants begin to stretch toward the light. It is easy to feel a touch of pride, as though I was somehow responsible for it all. In truth, the planter’s role is a minor one. Seeds get planted without my help all the time. In fact, that is the source of my sense of futility this year.
This isn’t my first rodeo, as they say. I have been planting and tending a garden long enough to know that eventually, unwanted invaders will show up like uninvited relatives at Thanksgiving. They’re obnoxious and stubborn. They crowd the space. They elbow their way into the middle of things. They grab for all the nutrients and water they can get their grubby little roots on. Robert Fulghum may say that weeds are just flowers growing where we don’t want them, but I am not nearly so generous with my assessment. When I began gardening in 2003, the uninvited guests were fewer in number. The main culprits were pigweed and Canadian thistle. Nuisances, to be sure; but they were manageable. I’m not sure who invited the foxtail, but trust me when I say it can ruin the party in a hurry. Even a local county agricultural agent had no better answer than a shrug and “use Roundup” in response to my inquiry about strategies and solutions for containment. All weeds are pretty persistent, but foxtail is downright formidable. Like a class bully, it chokes the life out anything that stands in its way.
In my experience, when it comes to weed control there is no substitute for the kind of hard work that eventually involves a sturdy hoe or investing in a good pair of gloves and spending time on your knees. When people told me in the past that I should be spending more time on my knees, I always thought it was a reference to prayer, but maybe they had weeding in mind. It is good advice in wither case. But here is the thing: once is not enough. The onslaught of weeds continues for the duration of the season. Clear the area today; by next week you’ll likely see signs of more arriving on the scene, like troops replenishing the front line. As an example, this year I managed to keep a potato patch pretty much weed free. I had the largest, most plentiful Kennebecs I have had in years – perhaps ever. Once harvested, I no longer spend time on weed control in that area, directing my energies elsewhere. Within two weeks the ground was green with things I didn’t plant. When the writer of Ecclesiastes wrote, “There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under the sun.” he failed to mention that some seasons seem to never end. Thus, the sense of futility. Pull the weeds today only to have more to pull in a day or two.
I continually seek new strategies to keep weeds at bay, but a now predictable plot unfolds every year. At the outset optimism abounds. As things progress, I’m pleased, proud even, of my garden through about mid-July. By early August, I hope no one who passes the property knows the garden belongs to me. It is almost an embarrassment. I imagine neighbors wonder what I have hidden amongst the green jungle and that any vegetables I give away were originally purchased at a local Amish market and passed off as my own.
At least every year is different, which helps keep things interesting. One year has impressive tomatoes but the onions are puny. One year the zucchini wilts by mid-July but another it lasts until mid-September. This year, it was necessary to plant green beans on three different occasions because some still unidentified plant muncher left only the stems growing out of the ground. Things are different every year . . . except for the weeds. Thus, thus the sense of futility. There is no end. There is no winning. I have never heard myself say at the end of the year, “Wow. The weeds weren’t as aggressive this year.” or “I wonder what happened to the weeds this year?” To borrow and perhaps misuse the words of both Habakkuk and Psalm 13, “How long, O Lord?” That is a more likely response.
I try different strategies at weed control. Now I’m wondering if perhaps I should plant a weed garden to begin with. Perhaps I could mow paths through them, create a maze, and invite people to walk it. Or to give it a spiritual twist, I could promote it as a weed labyrinth, encouraging participants to pray for clean gardens along with world peace as they do. In a near perfect world, we would all plant weeds, only to have them overrun with volunteer fresh vegetables.
While not particularly enjoyable, I suppose even futility can serve a useful purpose. What can it teach me? What might I learn? For starters, it provides a useful reminder about personal limitations, especially with regard to power and control. My personality is one that derives satisfaction from assessing and overcoming obstacles. They more frequently I do that, the more confident I become in my ability. But some things defy being overcome or even well-managed. Some are beyond my control. Accept it. Deal with it. Find an alternative. But don’t let it drive the rest of who you are.
Wrestling with a weedy mess also reminds me of the saying “keep on keeping on.” It is well-intended as a call for persistence and determination, but sometimes that approach simply leaves you tired and exasperated. So, work hard. Do what you can. Be passionate but not consumed by the task. And know that sometimes, like it or not, we have to choose our battles. A speaker at a conference I attended years ago advised us to know which hills we were willing to die on. As a Quaker, I would have looked for a different image if I had been presenting, but the point was (and is) a good one.
While under the influence of futility, I level the playing field by reminding myself that I choose to garden. There is nothing nor anyone who says that I must. I could walk away from the land and never plant another seed. Never pull another weed. But I recall there is pleasure mixed in with it all. And, I remember the taste: The rich, acidic flavor of homegrown tomatoes. The sweet juiciness of corn picked fresh that same day. The gentle crunch and mini-explosion of taste from green beans picked and snapped just before mealtime. I suppose I can suffer the weed-induced futility a little longer.
Some days a sense of futility just can’t be ignored. So in the words of the writer of Ecclesiastes: “A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their own toil.” Because tomorrow the weeds will come.
