The Power of Perspective

I spent an hour and a half yesterday battling Mother Nature’s invasion of my backyard. Truly, it was all I could manage.

This is not an ordinary battle against the lowly dandelion. Tough they are there with their pesky sunny yellow heads that without warning erupt into a cascade of white fluffy seeds that spread throughout the yard, landing like invading paratroopers. Even in their persistence, they are not a truly worthy opponent.

I gloved up and put on my armor, the inglorious sweatshirt and sweatpants. Wielding my trusty pruners, I headed into battle.

Now those who live in the city or even the suburbs might think that I’m being overly dramatic. And while I have been accused of that in the past, I assure you that I am completely on the up and up here.

I live in the toolies, in the boondocks, in the middle of nowhere. At the back, my yard butts up to hundreds of acres of farmland. From my deck, I can see yellow squash blooms among squash leaves the size of steering wheels. I can also see acres of corn stretching ever upward in the August sunshine. To the right is a small strip of woods with pine, cedar, pussywillow, holly and apple trees. To the left is one of the few neighbors on the gravel lane that leads to my house.

It is the woods that are the problem. Amongst the beautiful trees in my woods is one of nature’s most persistent plants:  the blackberry briar. They drive me to distraction. The moment I look away, here they come pushing through the woods trying to take over. Long arms push up and over the shrubs and through the trees into my yard, threatening a hostile take over.  And so I enter the fray.

An hour and a half into my battle, I stand back and look at the 15 feet that I had managed to clear. Scratched and bleeding from the unrelenting thorns that tore through my sweats and gloves, I hauled three garbage cans worth of yard debris to the fire pit in the middle of the yard. Only to remember, I cannot burn it. I will get to look at the mountain of debris out my kitchen window every day as I wash dishes, until burning season.

Standing there in the middle of my overgrown grass, frustrated beyond belief, standing next to a mountain of yard debris, surrounded by more invasive weeds than the state’s extension service can track, I see it. A purple thistle about two feet tall has sprung up on the side of the yard. It is almost too much to bear.

I stare into the purple fluff of the thistle trying to determine if my gloves will protect me in my attempt to destroy yet another villainous weed. 

Suddenly I am aware of the beautiful purple of the thistle flower. And for a moment, my overgrown, weed-infested yard is simply a grassy meadow filled with wildflowers. 


And with that new perspective, I go into the house and pour myself a glass of lemonade.