Tuesday, March 3, 2009


One of the most amazing things I find in the garden are the imposters--the weeds that do their best to look like the real flower in the row or bed. Sometimes they do such a good job I let them be. They may be fakes, but there is something admirable in their struggle for existence--and who are we to say what is a weed anyway? I once had a lady come pick her own flowers on our farm and she took home a bucket of weeds and was pleased as punch. Seems to me we are all weeds aspiring to some ideal vision of ourselves. And, as in the case of Hedda Gabler, when that vision is at great odds with reality, it is great tragedy. Or as Thoreau said back in the 1800s, before all the secret talk of the laws of attraction, "Sometimes, no doubt, we find it difficult to choose our direction, because it does not yet exist distinctly in our idea." At least these weeds in the garden know what they're aiming for and keep trying to perfect themselves year after year. Worthy of praise.

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