Weeding and the Wild

a devotional for summer

Photo by Rodion Kutsaiev on Unsplash

there is a hum in the morning
of bees on the clover, scattered 
across the lawn like 
congregants; 

church picnic chatter, 
the gentle joy of found sweetness;

nectar and conversation, 
seeker and sought
besotted;

the grass is overgrown, tall
with seed, stem, sheaf,

softness of petal
and psalms 
for sipping. 

The previous owners of our house were…tidy people. They both had engineering brains, deeply organized, and this tidiness was clearly demonstrated in the yard surrounding the house. It was very carefully landscaped when we moved in, certain ornamental plants chosen for specific areas, wildness kept at bay with strong chemicals, frequent mowing, and hundreds of yards of heavy landscape cloth under bark, gravel, rubber chips, pavers.

Very neat. Very just-so. Beautiful, yes, but just a little bit…sterile for our tastes.  

We quickly discovered that that kind of landscaping is warfare. It requires a vigilance that we simply do not possess. We prefer a bit of wild in our yard, certainly more than they did. But there’s a fine line between “a little wild” and “overgrown”, and we have always struggled to walk that line gracefully. These days, the weeds usually win. And while my forager/herbalist’s heart doesn’t mind, the homeowner in me often feels the pang of broken responsibility. 

This weekend, my parents came over and helped us do some yardwork. My dad went to town with the weedwhacker, freeing our front walkway (and our beloved azaleas) from the clutches of invasive black raspberry canes and fireweed that escaped its patch. My mom mixed up some vinegar-based spray and went after the opportunists growing around our patio and along the edges of concrete and foundation, pulling and spraying, creating a sense of intention around the house itself.

And something hit me, while we worked: I always thought that I had nothing in common with the previous owners, as far as our landscaping preferences. But that isn’t strictly true. The thing we have in common is a desire for purposefulness. For them, that purposefulness was reflected in keeping the wild fully away, putting their efforts into erecting walls against the unruly. For me, it lies in partnering with the wild in specific ways, letting that same unruly have its say…within reason. 

It brings me joy to let patches of this property go, because I cherish the juncos nesting in the bushes, and I love to see the garter snakes curled in the long grass, and to hear the frogs singing from the low places, and to watch the sweat bees swarm harmlessly over their dry-hole nests. I like wildflowers. I like color. I like this yard to feel alive, and the overly-landscaped version just never felt vibrant enough to me. 

But that said, to have a yard that lives and breathes still requires care. Mindfulness. Intention. Just as the soul—the heart, the brain, the day-to-day—can grow clogged and choked and overgrown without regular pruning and weeding, so too can a property, a piece of land. Stewardship is not sterile, nor is it indulgent…it is careful. It prioritizes. It practices husbandry, selection, and a bit of stern removal where necessary so that all can thrive.

To look upon a yard—and a soul—with fresh eyes is an uncommon feeling. There is more work to be done, always. Yet how sweet it feels to sit on the patio with my coffee in the early hours, hum of bees and kiss of hummingbirds and swoop of butterflies, and find myself surrounded by the good, the green, the growing.

Not at arm’s length, but here. Soul-close and filled with sacred color.

---

Moved by this piece (or simply feel like supporting my coffee habit) and want to contribute a one-time donation? Click the Tip Jar button below!

For more writings like this, subscribe for free!