Sisyphus is waiting in the weeds, again
March 2021
Nearly every year, about this time, farmers and gardeners alike start lamenting the fact that they’re losing the War on Weeds once again.
The skyscraper weeds that muscle their way upward and cast shadows of shade over everything else in their neighborhood.
The Type A weeds that erupt out of the soil overnight and spread a thicket of seedlings where patchy scrub ruled only hours before.
The humble, low-growing weeds that wash across the ground with lightning speed, surrounding, overrunning, and engulfing everything in their path.
Nearly every year, about this time, Nature martials its forces again to hold its claim on this ground. It rolls out all its artillery in another stubborn attempt to save the landscape from pesky intruders like beans, cucumbers, tomatoes and eggplant.
Nature asks: What is this flimsy leafy green plant called “lettuce” and this ugly ruffian known as “kale”? Where did this viny interloper called “squash” get the notion it had a right to take up residence here, to spread blankets of crude leaves and clumps of fleshy lumps and globes over wide swatches of my own, native inhabitants?
Who are these Johnny-come-lately outsiders that dare try to take root in territory that has been the domain of thistle, pigweed and lamb’s quarter for forever and a day?
Nature apparently abhors not only vacuums, but newcomers as well. This land is Nature’s land, from the rocky outcrop to the grassy meadow; from the pebbly creek to the mucky swamp. Nature resolves to drive the squatters out again. And, if necessary, again. And again.
Here and there, now and then, Nature loses battles to sheets of blacktop and concrete. Earth’s slopes are leveled, its shallow bowls are filled. Landscapes that once showed gentle rises and easy falls, abrupt ascents and steep descents are flattened into featureless plateaus. Free-flowing curves are stretched into taut, straight lines.
But most farmers and gardeners, the wise ones, refrain from such irreparable tactics. They respect the life, big and small, visible and invisible, that resides in Nature’s soil, rain and breeze. Despite their unfailing audacity, they know that in the end they’re going to have to strike a deal with Nature. They know they can take, but they have to give, too.
They may lease patches of Earth for a time, but it isn’t theirs to own. And they may borrow from Nature’s storehouse of life, but if they want to make withdrawals year after year, they understand that they’re going to have to make contributions.
And they know they’re going to endure their own version of the Myth of Sisyphus. Their struggle is unending. But they’re lucky. Unlike the unfortunate king of Corinth, with his eternal task of rolling a boulder up a mountain only to see it roll down again, their labors aren’t meaningless. They feed not only their bodies, but their souls, as well.