Some Metaphors Never Get Old

My family thinks I’m obsessed with pulling weeds. Truly, I have been known to stop mid-stride to pull one weed, wearing heels and white trousers, carrying my laptop, only to find myself amassing huge green piles as I work my way around the front walk.

They could be right.

What’s more, my husband is patient with my chronic disease of leaving those piles to either demonstrate my hard work, or give the kids some participation fun.  They love chores. Especially when I create the mess.

But tonight, pulling weeds provides a moment to ponder the irresistible metaphors. Especially after two weeks of paying not much attention to the evil things.

Advanced Metaphor Abuse

I have a particular addiction to the obtrusive, ugly ones with shallow root balls that are gross violations of the half-manicured flowerbed. They are oh-so satisfying to yank out and I usually want to hold up my trophy of victory and show someone, “Look! I got it all in one blow!” The weeds appear out of nowhere; it seems these monsters grow 4 feet in a single day!

I swear they weren’t here yesterday.

But that can’t be true, can it?  Others saw them even if I didn’t.

This year we have a preponderance of these succulent stretchy ones that have a central root, but weave along the ground, through the myrtle, and hide, as if to pretend they’re not there.  But when I grab one of the stems, I quickly see that there is an underlying system of invasion that can be easily pulled with one careful rip of the core.  Perfect. And again, satisfying. Once free, the healthy myrtle has space and clean soil in which to thrive.

Breathe.

Some of the thorny ones were reaching out from inside the lavender and I was forced to disturb the bumblebees in order to extract the ugliness.  Fear tried to stop me but I prevailed.

Gloves always help.

The most difficult ones have been quietly rising alongside our most-precious ornamental tree: our weird and fragile Corkscrew Hazel.  The weeds invade at the base and have stiff stalks. They obstruct the root system of the tree and change what it is meant to be: an artistic marvel with unique, curly branches winding in every direction.

To conquer these dastardly weeds, I need to cut with a sharper blade and haul them off. They are invading from another tree whose roots aren’t bad, but is causing the invasion to show up where they’re not supposed to.

I need extra-strong tools. It’s worth it.

Pulling weeds is a daily task, but when we take a break and try to ignore them, they still grow.
Ugly and impossibly big.

But they are never stronger than my desire, my will to kill them.

 “Some fell in the weeds; as it came up, it was strangled by the weeds. Some fell on good earth, and produced a harvest beyond his wildest dreams.”