I’m in charge of weeding our yard. I tackle the job whenever I remember I’m supposed to do it, which isn’t frequently enough, because the weeds get ahead of me, growing faster than I can uproot them. There was one section of our yard I just never got to, and the weeds there grew tall, and I felt bad about it every time I looked at them. Then one morning last week I glanced at the dreaded spot and was surprised and delighted to discover that beautiful white flowers had bloomed at the tops of the tallest stalks, apparently overnight. I felt a rush of gratitude and relief for having been a slacker at weeding. Since then, I notice that most of the flowers I see are “weeds” — wild plants that have somehow been spared contact with the likes of me, blooming without regard for anyone. I’m finding it much harder to remember to do the weeding.
