Sometimes I ask for help
I create messes
and then clean them up.
I planted a hosta.
But my vision was different than what was real —
a hosta with its own idea of how it wanted to exist in my garden.
Enormous leaves, spreading girth, crossed a boundary —
a boundary of how I wanted it to behave.
Took on its own life.
Grew big.
Deep.
Powerful.
Overwhelming.
Heavy.
One day, I didn’t want it in the landscape anymore.
And did something about it.
One by one.
I dug them up.
I clean up messes
that I create.
and from plants that were there when I arrived.
Ancestral patterns - seeds from the past.
My garden teaches me things -
intention versus reality -
dreams versus what’s real -
wishes and enchantment -
a plant with its own ideas.
A life of its own.
I thought I planted one thing
But something else grew.
I planted love. I planted sweetness.
It was overcome by powerful leaves of betrayal.
I dug it up.
I cleaned up the mess.
The hosta
didn’t want to budge.
Wanted to stay put.
Comfortable in the landscape -
free reign in my garden.
dominating the view.
I jumped on the metal shovel edge,
balancing my weight on the metal - digging deep,
revealing what was buried underneath.
I made cuts, circling the plant, diligently addressing the deep roots.
patiently working towards the release.
I got the plant unrooted. I did it.
Sweaty, hot, dusty, dirty feet.
Cutting the cords was only part of the job.
It was still there.
Too big to lift. Too big to roll. Too heavy to get it into a wheelbarrow.
and I tried.
Came this close to pulling a muscle in my back,
Intent on its removal.
I persisted but had to give up. Will wasn’t enough.
Almost hurt myself.
It was too much for me to do on my own.
I needed help.
I reached out to my neighbor, Gabor,
who had tools I lacked.
and welcomes any life experience.
A sharp axe - chopped into four smaller pieces.
Felt violent to chop a living plant.
It’s not the hosta’s fault for behaving like a hosta -
for having a vision that didn’t match my dream of it -
in my garden.
He chopped - making a split that I ripped apart with my hands -
Pieces that I could pick up and carry on my own.
Cut the frequency with a sharp blade.
I apologized for seeking his help. Was I annoying?
Disappointed in myself. In my limitations.
I felt a tear forming when I apologized.
Feeling like a burden. Weak.
He was glad I asked. Looked me in the eye.
Glad we were neighbors.
Liked how I made things happen. Happy to help.
I gifted him some sweet strawberries.
He replied with strawberry rhubarb in a jar.
and took the hostas for compost - back to the earth.
I’m using care when choosing plants.
I seek delicate, quiet, subtle plantings.
And less plants altogether.
I reveal plants hidden among the dominant ones,
move them to an open spot where a hosta used to reside.
The vulnerable, plant - now the main attraction.
Go slow.
Watch how plants behave in the garden.
Sometimes in life - we plant, expecting one thing
dreaming a dream of the fruit the plant could bear.
Caught up in the sweetness of the dream -
like freshly-picked June strawberries.
I looked the other way when the garden got unruly, attracted pests -
prickles and thorns.
Forcing out the vulnerable and gentle energies.
When my vision doesn’t align with reality,
and the garden has taken on a different energy -
different than the one I longed for.
I’m letting myself see.
And once I realize it’s a mess -
I know I can clean it up.
