Sunday morning is a wonderful time in suburbia. People are either at church or sleeping in, and it’s about the only time during the gardening season where your senses aren’t overwhelmed by the sounds and smells of lawn mowers, leaf blowers and string trimmers. An excellent time for some reflection in the garden. It’s these times when I realize how readily gardening provides an avenue for metaphor.
My task this morning was weeding the borders on the south side of our house, an area that I’ve woefully neglected over the past month. As someone who was raised Roman Catholic, I can’t help but draw a parallel between my neglect of the garden and the subsequent hours of prostrated weeding and the sin/penance model championed by the faith of my childhood.
Strained religious metaphor aside, weeding is not my favorite thing to do. Something about the repetition exacerbates my wrist pain from too many hours at the computer. But there is a feeling of completion that comes from having a well-weeded and behaved garden border. Until, of course, the next weed makes an appearance and tempts you to ignore it for too long.