The Well Magazine Summer 2012 - Page 20

Weed Free: The root of the problem is always deeper than what you see on the surface. How Pruning my Garden Helped Me Find My Roots something I didn't even know I was missing. But first, the drama: there I was, swinging, sweating and sashaying from the front yard to the back, enraptured by the power in my hands. I chopped weed after weed. Unruly bushes and branches soon bowed too; some damned by little more than their proximity to the wicked ones whose tangled ways had brought about this day of mass uprooting. I was having some pre-fourth party; lost in the wonder of my weaponry and the thrill of enacting a long overdue green wrath. The high-noon heat threatened to turn me around, but the sun held no sway over me; nor did the stares of neighbors so clearly wondering why I'd chosen this day to go Ginzu in full view. I had been lured outside by a lone weed-- angered by the audacity of its growth, saluting me each morning, from the very front-yard window box where flowers were supposed to bloom. For weeks, I looked away. I convinced myself I had to choose between taming the weed or calming the sea of problems beginning to grow out of my decision to live life minus a "real" job. So, I chose the sea. I poured myself in, believing nothing could be me more pressing than the preservation of me. The day I finally got after the weed it was still about me, only my attempt to run away from me and the slow burning realization that my plan to preserve me was like the weed, out of control. Facing off with the weed at least promised a measure of pleasure. So I marched to the garage with my mind set on finding the most menacing tool possible. It's so humorous to me now, the way I made my vengeance move on a Sunday, just minutes after returning home from a group meditation that was supposed to relax my mind. Photo by Monica Fountain By Nichole Christian or a few hours over one Fourth-of-July weekend, I went weed-whacking-crazy, so far gone, I swear, I crossed into another realm. Let me paint the picture: think Carrie, only chocolate covered and slightly less fright-eyed, but possessed nonetheless. I was gone, but not in that “Hollyweird” kind of way. I mean, I didn't see flashing lights and I didn't hear a sudden symphony of voices, not even the one usually chattering away inside my head. Everything was quiet, which is what made the moment so otherworldly. Trust me when I tell you, it was like someone had tied a rope around my rambling mind and my busy body, forcing these warring factions to play nice, just long enough for me to rediscover F The Well Magazine / Summer 2012 20