Thistle Words
Rain is a weeders best friend. We had a big one on Tuesday, more than an inch. So, yesterday, after writing about my new enemy the Musk or nodding thistle, I had a beautiful morning with my turning fork digging up the pests. Our soil is a sandy reddish clay that is easy to turn when wet and rock hard when dry. This is why spring is when I dig and weed. I have until May. And I’m making good progress.
Unlike the khaki weed which grew low and hid among the grasses, the thistles grow up and out. They’re easy to spot. They’re still dangerous to the touch, and my leather gloves come in handy, but when the ground is wet the thistle rises up when I turn beneath it, and the tap root is easy to grab. It’s oddly satisfying work even though I know somewhere a thistle is blooming off my land and the wind is willing to bring the seeds my way. Still, everything I can do on site will make next year that much easier. I hope.
Meanwhile, I will trudge on, terraforming my little piece of land, welcoming flowers and trees I like. Dismissing those I find offensive. It’s a lot like how we live our lives. Welcoming friends who bring us joy and pleasure, avoiding those who don’t. The goal, I suppose, is happiness although when it comes right down to it, it may be the only way we stave off the horror of staring into the abyss with the realization the universe will continue on, with or without us.