It is said that one of the distinguishing characteristics of Homo sapiens is our desire to put things in order out of the chaos around us. We want to create order, or logos, out of a seemingly disordered and random universe. That’s why we paint, write, compose music, tell stories, and even organize our gardens. We look upon the result of these efforts as “beauty.”
I bring this up, because I have been working in the garden again. I’ve noticed that working in the soil with the sun on my back leads me to think about things in a much simpler way than anything else I do in the course of a day. What I have been doing in the garden reflects what I do in life, which is to simplify, pull out weeds, and create space for growth. Well, I try to do those things. It’s taken me nearly a lifetime to get to that point, but I have always been something of a late bloomer. Excuse the pun.
About a month ago, I started pulling out those plants that I decided were not right for the kind of garden I wanted to create. One plant in particular was “bear’s breeches” (Acanthus mollis). It is native to the Mediterranean and thrives in the similar climate of the Bay Area. You can find it just about everywhere out here. If you’ve ever paid attention to the top of Corinthian columns (and who hasn’t?) or been to the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, you have seen acanthus leaves.
The acanthus is an elegant plant with long stems of purple and white blossoms. It’s actually very pretty. The problem was that it was growing wild underneath a large, aluminum planter box that contained potatoes. It was sticking out, pushing up, and grasping for sunlight in all the wrong places like a country song. So, I decided it had to be eliminated.
I went to work with my trusty mattock, the one I bought at the hardware store down the street and carried home over my shoulder (see Attack of the Yucca). I also worked at it with a shovel the way I worked the stumps of the apple tree and holly hedge. Within an hour I dug a two-foot hole underneath the planter box and a small trench to the plant’s root. It was a bit difficult not only because of the planter but also the redwood fence separating my property from my neighbor’s. Still, I was able to rip out the plant and chop up its roots so that it would no longer look down upon the yard like a Corinthian column. It was completely and utterly destroyed.
Or so I thought. What can I say other than, homo proponit, sed Deus disponit? Incredibly, I saw this week that the acanthus has returned in all of its splendor and then some. Never mind the chopping, hacking, and digging. I don’t know how, but it looks even healthier than before. Now, I have great respect for Ancient Greek civilization and should have spared the plant for that reason alone. To my shame, I did not. I will do so now because of its drive to live, which is beyond mere instinct. It’s also more than falling seven times and getting up eight (Proverbs 24:16). This kind of resilience is miraculous.
I tell you, I went at that plant mercilessly and will have to check the alarm system camera to make sure there’s no record of the dirty deed. But, as Zeus is my witness, I thought I was doing the right thing: you know, creating logos out of chaos. Instead, I created brutality amid peace and got a lesson in humility and a deeper appreciation of beauty. I should have known better than try to break a “bruised reed” (Matthew 12:20). Now, on to the lemon tree.
“Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit” (man proposes, God disposes) taken from Thomas à Kempis’ De Imitatione Christi. Image credits: feature by Tim Foster. Gallery by Alan Rockefeller, CC BY-SA 4.0; Roger Culos, CC BY-SA 3.0; Dwergenpaartje, CC BY-SA 4.0; and Laura Seaman. Want more? Go to Robert Brancatelli. The Brancatelli Blog is a member of The Free Media Alliance, which promotes “alternatives to software, culture, and hardware monopolies.”
