My landlord is here today to clip back the weeds which have grown up around the foundations of my apartment building. This is the first I’ve seen him at this task, yet his work recalls for me a hundred weeds I’ve pulled, roots shaken free from clods of rich earth.
In this simple toil, I find a repetition thick with metaphor: a neverending process of growth and death. A turning again and again to the faithful tool we have used for many seasons.
In the still crispness before the final crack from winter to spring, a small root shivers and breathes. Soon it will venture one small green lobe from beneath the crust–
–and we are loathe to crush this first spark of the new season, so its roots spread and it grows strong. One day we will pull this creature from its simple life to make room for others, but the persistence of the weed will find a way, and we will find another weed in the garden.
It is here that I begin to see how there is always hope in a new life, even in the life of a weed. I am glad to know, too, that life still chooses persistence over resignation and rebirth over decay.
Why do we allow repetition to bore us when it is so eager to bring us into deeper meanings, into quieter places?