This year’s garden, the one we tend, looks fine as well, and it is producing grandly. But it is a struggle. The weeds invade from the woods, from behind the fence, from underneath. They tangle at the base of the peas, sprout up a lawn between the onions, threaten to choke out the chard. The honeysuckle — oh, it’s honey on the tongue, but it destroys everything in its path: sends its woody vines beneath the earth, weaves through the fence, masses thickly at the top, shades out our plants. Cut its shoots and it returns in a month. Cut its vines and it returns in a season. It must be torn out by the roots, and even then it will find its way back, because its roots are as deep as the woods themselves.<\/p>\n
So I tear it out where I can — where tearing it out won’t upheave the peas, the tomatoes, the cucumbers; but too often it does, and what purpose is there in tearing out the weeds only to ruin the vegetables? So I tear it out where I can, with care, and I’m glad to see it gone. We have to weed if we’re going to eat.<\/p>\n
But it’s not as if I exult in its death. I’m not going to sing hymns of praise for the demise of an invasive, destructive weed. God made the honeysuckle, too, and all the rest: it’s only our cultivation that made them weeds. There’s no joy in their loss, only hard necessity.<\/p>\n
We should be thankful for the tomatoes, though. And for the buttercups, where we’ve had the good sense to leave well enough alone.<\/p>\n
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