Picking Weeds

Living in Tennessee, around early March I start to get antsy.

We get days that seem like we’re going to skip right over Spring, but somehow we snap back into the little winters.

Blackberry.

Dogwood.

Red Bud.

I can taste it. Warm spring days.

The girls’ tiny feet dancing barefoot on the deck.

Music playing, the grill going.

‘Mom! Can you swing me?!’

I look all around at what the Winter left for me.

Dead, dried up leaves stuck in my flower beds, impossible to blow out with the blower.

Fragments of branches and sticks laying everywhere.

Last years growth, dried and begging to be removed.

Patches of brown mud in the yard.

And the weeds.

Oh, the weeds.

The feeling of overwhelm creeps in. This will take so long.  They’re growing in my beds.

I could cover them with another layer of mulch or pine needles. Mmm, no.

They’ll just push their way through.

I could squirt roundup on them. Ugh, chemicals. Might hurt my flowers and plants.

I’ll have to pick them.

I’ll get on my hands and knees. One by one, I’ll dig my fingers into the dirt and try to remove any trace of their existence.

Pluck them.

Remove them.

Much like negative thoughts, or doubts, failures, or creative roadblocks.

Weeds are just part of it.

I can’t stop them from coming.

They’ll always push through.

It’s almost cyclical.

If I could just train myself to understand that this is part of the process.

You can’t love the dream and end result without first learning to love the process…

Gardens take time.

Patience.

Love and care.

Trial and error.

Grace.

But there will always be weeds.

Learn to love picking weeds.