Funny thing, being a naturalist and a gardener. It means one half of me recognizes weeds and the other sees only wildflowers.
The gardener wants them gone and the naturalist refuses to use chemicals to do it. And that means that one half of me is constantly bent over pulling weeds (trying not to moon the neighbors too badly) while the other half questions her own sanity and the date of inevitable spinal collapse.
I try to pull 100 weeds a day, but I forget on most days and so end up pulling five or six hundred in one evening to catch up. Yesterday was just such an evening.
While Abbey scampered about, pulling as many weeds as her preschool attention would allow (about three at a time, with long tricycle breaks in between), I yanked out every pesky "volunteer" I could find. My back ached, my knees creaked, my nails filled up with dirt. . .and it was wonderful.
The sun was low and sparkling gold, the breeze ruffled the leaves of trees and blades of grass, and a simple peace settled over my daughter and me as if for just those few minutes, I knew without a doubt that we were in the right place, doing the right thing.
And we'll get to do it again:
"But make no mistake: the weeds will win; nature bats last." ~Robert M. Pyle