“Nana, are the seeds growing?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her. The seeds never germinated, and I saw no sign of life as I checked the moist flower pots every morning.
At one point, I felt a glimmer of hope as green sprouts started pushing their way through the soil. But, as the days went on, I recognized the prevalent, invasive growth. Chickweed!
I was all too familiar with these dastardly little scoundrels. They had plagued my flower pots for years, as well as infiltrating the garden beds situated under the eaves of the house. Even though we had laid dark, weed barrier fabric over the soil, the stubborn chickweed broke through the mesh. I patrolled the beds and pulled the pesky weeds out as soon as they appeared among my flowering shrubs and cotoneasters. The young sprouts were still tender, and I could eradicate them easily. The one thing the weeds stayed away from was the prickly junipers.
Each year, my floral baskets overflowed with these strong, yet delicate-looking chickweed tendrils cascading down the pots. While they looked quite pretty with their lush foliage and defined white flowers, they were deceptive. You see, if you looked closely at the chickweed flowers, there appeared to be ten petals, but upon closer inspection, there were only five petals—split at the base, and appeared to be double the amount. How clever, and quite extraordinary of nature to create such an illusion. In addition to the petals, these weeds offered more trickery to my sweet, beguiled garden.
These gentle-looking locks would eventually grow and spread throughout my curated florae. I thought chickweed should actually be called “choke-weed,” as, over time, it would strangle my adored vegetation.
Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, they added a rich, thick greenery to my pots, but I knew this was a guise. Their job was to take over the garden by choking out everything in their way.
The dainty white floras contrasted with their thick stalks. I could feel their strength as I grabbed them by the throat and attempted to pull them from the dirt. They were as sturdy as they were stubborn. I struggled to yank them forcefully in one swift tug, but they cleverly broke midway through. While I was able to strip some of them from the pot, the roots remained firmly in place, and much of the vines created a fortress as they cleverly entangled themselves among my flowers. With each attempt to pull them out, I actually believed they were becoming stronger. Like a tug of war, they steadfastly held their ground, gaining traction and digging deeper into the soil—firmly planted in the belief that this was their territory. They were decisively anchored in the ground and were not going anywhere, anytime soon.
A Fresh Approach
With the hope that spring brings, I thought my preschool granddaughter and I could test our green thumbs together. I could show her the ropes. After all, I have had decades of successful gardening under my belt, although controlling a variety of evil, villainous weeds and bugs was a constant challenge. The learning never stopped.
I thought it would be fun to buy a pack of dianthus seeds (pinks) and sprinkle them in the backyard flower pots. With a short growing season, I typically didn’t plant seeds—I usually bought bedding-out plants available in trays of six. These plants were already several inches tall, and they had a better chance of blooming in our short Calgarian summer. However, for some reason, I thought growing plants from seeds would give us the opportunity to witness the magic of them popping up from the ground and nurturing them through this warm period. In an ideal scenario, they would accent the existing geraniums and spikes that already rented the space for the summer.
I’ve always had a colorful garden sprinkled with bright petunias, trailing lobelia, and hanging baskets of various plant varieties. The sun cast its light on part of my yard and kissed the flowers in the early sun from the east. As the day transitioned, so did the sunlight. Another set of pots was positioned to catch the afternoon light from the south and the west.
With a thick row of fragrant lilacs lining the north side of the yard, they acted like a fence of the finest materials. They never needed painting. Their mauve, cone-shaped blooms dotted the green leaves in June. After the wind scattered the blossoms, the tree canopy provided shade for the begonias and pansies. The garden swing playfully swayed in the light breeze as if waving to the various growth surrounding it.
I loved to have my morning coffee in this backyard setting. It was quiet and peaceful and gave me solace. That was until I noticed the rabbits and the squirrels moving through the yard with grace and playfulness. They, too, must have enjoyed the early morning quietness in the dew-sprinkled grass. Too soon, however, they were distracted by a bird or a vehicle racing through the cul-de-sac. It appeared disturbances were common to each of us in all forms, shapes, and sizes.
As I refocused on my flowers, maternal emotions flooded in. The geraniums were planted in memory of my mother, who loved the strong, sturdy stalks and large balls of color. She always paired them with dark green spikes that looked like a fountain spilling over the round flowers. The contrast in shapes and color made them very visually appealing. My deeply tanned mom always loved the sun, as did these flowers, which highlighted her yard, as well as my childhood.
The pansies were planted in memory of my mother-in-law. She didn’t like the dirt and saw no joy in gardening. But she appreciated the delicate, velvety flower petals. I usually chose the deep purple flowers with bursts of bright yellow, complemented by dark veining radiating from the center. They grew in the shade and accented the stairs of my deck.
Inadvertently, I had hoped to create my own gardening memories with my granddaughter by planting the dianthus seeds. Over the years, I consciously paid homage to the important women in my life, and I hoped to instill the same appreciation for gardening and traditional family values in my granddaughter.
I hoped to grow memories with strong roots.
Ironically, could they be like the strong roots of the chickweed that obstinately takes control of my garden?
Hmmm, this immediately shifted my perspective.
Suddenly, I saw parallels between chickweed and life itself.
The more I tugged at the weeds, the stronger they became.
When challenged in life, we dig in. We look deeper for answers and for strength. And eventually, we become stronger.
It’s somewhat ironic that when we are challenged, we plant our feet firmly on the ground. We become resolute. We fight for what we believe.
Like the chickweed in the garden, we fight to survive among the flowers. We are steadfast in our desire for survival and attempt to be surrounded by beauty, which feeds our souls.
A Change in Perspective
When my granddaughter comes over this week and asks about the seeds, I will show her the robust seedlings bursting from the soil. I will point out how they encircle the geraniums and the pansies, perhaps in an attempt to grow and embrace them eventually. And I will try to guide their growth, so they live in harmony with the flowers.
Perhaps we need to embrace and nurture the delicate flowers of the chickweed. Perhaps it is in its rightful place, just as we are. Like life, this becomes a lesson in tolerance, acceptance, and inclusion. The beauty of nature is that we all can live together in harmony and enjoy our differences as well as our similarities.
Before the sun faded in the western sky, I checked my flower pots one more time, eagerly looking for any trace of germinating pinks. As I moved the existing leaves back to examine the saturated dirt, I saw something! A bright spot—a strong green sprout starting to burst through the black soil. It looked different from the chickweed shoots—thicker and pointy, like a spear emerging from the earth. Could this be my pinks? Or is it the steadfast chickweed?
I will check in the morning light.
“Previously published by Story Circle Network.”
