In 2001 my ex-husband Pablo and I bought a two-acre farm in Sacramento County. For me, this was a dream come true. Even though I was born in Oakland, I’ve always been a country-girl at heart, and for as long as I can remember I’ve maintained a garden of some sort in which to find peace, contentment, and a sense of accomplishment (at least some of the time!). There’s nothing quite like stepping outside to pick some veggies for your dinner or grab a peach off your tree, and the feeling of rich, well-worked soil in my hands literally grounds me when my head and heart are spinning.

I’ve endless stories to tell about my gardening experiences, but since I’ve just spent four hours weeding yet another garden row that was inundated with invaders and my arch-nemesis Bermuda grass, I have weeds on my mind.

Experience has taught me that weeds thrive in poor, dry soil that lacks organic matter and living creatures (worms are the surest sign of healthy dirt) and thus would be unlikely to support other more desirable plants in a robust manner. Bermuda grass is a prime example. Its roots run very deep (at least a foot) and spread so quickly and so far that it’s virtually impossible to exterminate without extremely strong and harmful chemicals that would kill everything green within range. Miss one small root while weeding, and the damn stuff will be back with a vengeance in no time. There have been times when I’ve been ready to throw in the trowel and take up soap operas!

While weeding is without a doubt a necessity, as painful as it can be, equally important is adequate water and mulching with rich organic matter (amazing how weeds thrive in pavement cracks where no water or nutrients reach). As we have sheep, goats, llamas, and poultry, this organic “gold” is readily at hand. And the manure of the before mentioned animals is “cool” enough to put directly around growing plants without harm, unlike steer manure, which is initially too “hot” and would burn and possibly destroy young plants.

Of course, I’m not attempting to provide gardening lessons here (though if you gain some insight, no harm), but the metaphors are too obvious to ignore. Perhaps our very lives are our personal gardens. We have the potential to bear fruit, vegetables, and the most beautiful and exotic plants and flowers, and we can equally bear nothing but scraggly tufts and invasive, creeping weeds such as Bermuda and crab grass. While weeds are living things in their own right (they are, in fact, plants you haven’t invited into your garden), they do little to nothing to feed your soul if you’re trying to grow beautiful flowers and food for your table. They are, in fact, the gardener’s enemy that must be constantly attacked to keep at bay.
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Let’s face it, water is beautiful as long as it’s not inappropriately extreme (constantly soggy ground will kill new plants as sure as dried-out, “dead” soil), and watering is easy enough even though it can be a major chore in Sacramento summer heat. I would compare watering to providing the peace, nurturance, and restfulness that our bodies and souls need to survive. Although this sounds like a no-brainer, how many of us regularly take the time to truly relax and renew? We have a million excuses involving the endless list of chores that consume us, but truthfully, we simply are not our own priority.

So if we provide the water, where does the mulch come from? I can’t help but compare manure to the bullshit of life, (as I warned earlier, I’m not all about the flowery language of a demure lady) that causes us so much grief and pain, and the decomposing leaves, the memories, once so vivid and beautiful, that are slowly fading to dust. Yet, this very fertilizer is the stuff that makes us strong when we absorb the goodness and learn to glean the richness from the experience. All we have to do is look at the people around us. Although easy to envy, those folks who appear to have never suffered challenges or loss tend to be incredibly shallow people who lack understanding or empathy for others. This is, of course, a sweeping generalization, yet one that I have found to be true in my life. The most generous people I’ve met are those who have known lack, even poverty. And the friends I hold dearest have all experienced loss and suffering yet have beautiful compassion, loyalty, and understanding. I can be jealous of the peace and prosperity of those with easy lives, but I don’t think I’d trade most of the experiences that have molded me into the person I am.

And the weeding? For me, it means digging into the pain and ugliness and extracting it by any means possible without destroying the health of the surrounding soil (and the squiggly creatures). Sometimes, I think I’ve reached the root, but on closer inspection, I find that I’ve merely broken it, and the source is far deeper than I anticipated. Reaching the origin of the root takes a sharp shovel, fit legs, elbow grease, and a strong grip.

I would liken losing my daughter to having a heap of steer manure dumped on me (strange allusion, isn’t it?). The heat has threatened to destroy the essence of my life. I can only hope that my roots run deep, and that as the manure cools and nutrients sink in, shoots will once again appear above ground, reaching for the sun and bearing beautiful, nurturing fruit. I owe this to my beloved daughter, and to my daughter and husband who still live, to not allow her death to totally destroy me. My aim has been to never impart that level of guilt to my children or make them responsible for my emotional wellbeing. Yet, only time will tell, as the seasons move on, whether I learn again to thrive.