I like to weed. I like to get my hands dirty. There's something so basic..so in tune...so at one with the earth...so honest in doing it. I'm sure it's much more practical to zap them. To me, that 'poisons' the process and removes an important element of satisfaction and, more importantly, the strong connection with nature that rewards the work.
I dug and dug and pulled and pulled and watched the weed pile grow and grow. That encouraged me onward. Strangely, I began to dread the thought of cleaning it up: what a sense of accomplishment was held therein! Yet, as more and more dirt was uncovered, the reward factor shifted to that side. Plants hidden since fall now basked in sunlight.
Unfortunately, the weeds, plants and soil were peppered with spiky balls -- from liquid ambers, I think. I'm certain these nasty, devilish things were the singular inspiration for that horrid medieval invention, the mace. Smaller versions - but lethal, no less, to foot, hand. And, to further prove a grim point: the decomposing ones bear a ghoulish resemblance to...uh...a human skull. Isn't there a better way to create a seed?It took a long soak in the tub and a good bit of scrubbing to get (most of) the dirt off me. Well worth it!
Bliss: project done: weeds gone, stepping stones added!
