Collin Willis

Preface

I have written, unwritten, and rewritten this post nearly a dozen times. I was trying to put into my own words how I feel about everything that has happened in the last week- George Floyd, The Minneapolis Riots, and dozens of similar riots and protests going on around the country. I realized after draft #6 that I simply cannot put this into my own words. As such, I came to write those feelings in someone else’s story. Here is that story, here are those feelings.

On Gardening

When I was a child, my Mother saw many of them in Her garden. The weeds. Popping up here and there, so unsightly in the presence of her prized lilies, tulips, and geraniums. So, She had me put on gloves and wear my dirtiest jeans so that I may remove the unpleasantness from Her bed of natural perfection.

Being the least fond of work in the outdoors, I saw that the fastest way to remove the weeds was to pluck the stray leaves and blades that had protruded through the soil. Afterall, it was these leaves and blades that caused the unpleasantry in my mom’s sight. If they were gone, there was no need to spend any more time in the garden.

But my Mother saw beneath the flower bed, and underneath the soil there were all kinds of abhorrent deeds taking place- even more than those which appeared on the surface. For beneath the soil were the roots; here was where the weed was king. Under the soil the weed was not subject to the disdain of my sight. Under the soil the weed was free to expand and grow to the entire length of the flower bed if it so desired. Here the weed was up, down, left, and right- ever expanding in the darkness. And the more the weed was allowed to grow, the more its roots could soak up all of the ground’s water, the more it could claim for itself the precious nutrients it wanted, and the more it could thrive on what was intended for the growing flowers.

Still, I did not see under the surface; I saw only the emaciated flowers above. I saw the once beautiful geraniums, lilies, and tulips turned grey as the sunlight bore down on them without ceasing, as the waters and nutrients they needed to blossom had already been hoarded by something else down below.

Did my Mother say to the geraniums; Why don’t you try harder to get the water?

Did my Mother say to the tulips; Didn’t I already offer you those nutrients?

Did my Mother say to the lilies; Couldn’t you have just given the weeds what they wanted and gone on your way?

No, my Mother said to me; It is time to pull the weeds, for they have killed My flowers.

And so, I put on my gloves and my dirt-caked jeans, and I got down into the flower bed with my spade and a bucket. And I sunk my spade into the Earth and saw the chaos underneath. The small blades and leaves that I had plucked on the surface grew without restraint and created a labyrinth of hungry roots, much larger than I could have imagined.

I had only known them as the occasional unsightly blade in the garden; but as my spade removed dirt from the ground, I began to see the truth. Only once the flower bed had been turned up did I see the weeds for what they were- not the stray protuberance here and there, but a nexus of unholiness growing unchecked and occluding the flowers from the life intended for them.

And on my Mother’s orders I pulled the weeds from the Earth, ripping them from their stolen homes. Dirt and loam came with them. The water they hoarded turned the soil damp and the garden quickly to mud. And when every last weed had been ripped violent from the Earth and their labyrinth of roots had been gutted by the spade, I could not understand. I had removed the weeds, but the garden now lay in ruins too.

And my Mother said to me; Do not feel sorry for the loss of that garden, for it had been overrun by weeds. But the one that will soon take its place will now belong only to the flowers. For no garden was ever grown without spade first raping the Earth.

And my Mother was right. Soon the soil returned to its natural state, no longer marred by the marks of the spade or broken up by the growth of the weed. And underneath the surface too, the garden returned to its natural space. Where weeds once created networks of gnarled, ensnaring roots, were now caverns for water and nutrients to dwell. And when the flowers sprouted from seedlings and their roots grew deeper while their stems pushed towards the light of the surface, they no longer found suffocation but life- full life- free from obstruction and decay. The flowers found a surface not marred by the marks of the spade nor populated by hordes of deeply rooted parasites. The flowers found a garden where they were free to grow, and to spread, and to fill the garden with life- the way that my Mother intended.

And soon there were geraniums, lilies, and tulips; rose bushes, begonias, cosmos, and daffodils. The flowers grew, and adapted, and bloomed into a rainbow of colors. There were oranges brighter than the sun, reds more striking than blood, blues deeper than the ocean, and purples more lavish than royalty. And the smells, oh how I loved the fragrance of the roses as it danced from the flowers and to my nose.

My Mother smiled, for She had been correct. Without the weeds, the flowers were able to grow beyond even the plans She had for them. And without the flowers to leech from, the weeds quickly withered under the heat of the sunlight and died.

But when I decided to pluck a rose from the bush so that I could show off that flower I had helped grow, and share its fragrance with others- the rose had other plans. When my greedy little hand clamped down, it sent thorns to penetrate my flesh; and blood ran down my wrist.

Crying, I grabbed my spade- ready to wipe out this vile growth in My garden. But as I raised the spade, my Mother grabbed my hand, for I was about to ravage Her garden and root out the flowers She had planted there Herself.

Do not blame the rose for its thorns, She told me. For without those thorns you would have plucked it and it would have wilted away just the same as if it had been killed by the weed.