Marit Pederson
A Garden of Thistles
My mother and my grandmother taught me how to tend a garden, how to love and nurture it. They showed me how to gently tease a snarled root system free before putting it in a hole I dug with my own small trowel. We pruned the roses and trimmed the pink spireas I lovingly called butterfly bushes. I watched with confusion as my mother hung bars of soap to try and keep the bunnies and deer from nibbling the hostas and goatsbeards. Most importantly, I helped water the plants and pull the weeds.
I was told it was important to pull the thistles while they were small. Taught to pull up the little rosettes before their green leaves sprouted vicious thorns. I learned the bull thistle was an invasive species, a biennial plant that could not be allowed to stay. If left to its own devices, an established bull thistle would spread rapidly and exponentially, killing the garden.
My grandmother spent hours doting upon her massive flowerbeds. I helped her weed, ripping up thistles by their roots to ensure they didn’t grow back. Once, when I went out with her to water the flowers, she stopped near one of her many lily plants, her face curled in disgust. A bull thistle had escaped her ever-watchful gaze, its rosette somehow surviving the previous year. It had artfully tangled itself with the lily and by the time its presence was noticed, it was too late. The bull thistle grew with that lily as we helplessly watched, unable to pull it without risking harm to the beautiful flower it used as a shield. The thorny purple flower bloomed proudly, pleased with its victory of survival, all while the stargazer lily choked and died.
Watching the never-ending fight with the thistles and weeds, I have realized a few things.
First, there will always be thistles. There always have been and there always will be. Bull thistles are sharp and hurtful, uncaring of the lilies they hurt in their quest to be the biggest and the strongest.
Second, many different plants fill the flowerbeds, and it is the gardener’s duty and delight to care for all of them. The bigger the garden, the more potential for weeds. No matter how watchful, how devoted, weeds will always take root. They will fight for their own space in the name of survival.
Third, it isn’t the thistles’ fault. They are only doing what they know. They germinate, they sprout, they bloom. They fight for resources, hoarding and gorging themselves, as other flowers starve and die. All the thistles know is a prickly defense, not caring how they survive, only caring that they do, living on to create the next generation of thistles.
Fourth, a thistle can only be a thistle, but they are not without their uses. Thistles are used to treat maladies from fevers and stomach cramps to seizures. My grandmother begrudgingly acknowledges that the appearance of bull thistles indicates good soil and, since livestock won’t eat them, their roots help keep the topsoil from blowing away.
I am no longer the small, blissfully unaware child I was, playing in the dirt and admiring the blossoms my mother and grandmother cultivated. As I look around the world, I can’t help but notice how the weeds have taken root.
In the back of my mind, I hear my mother’s patient voice pointing out the rosettes, explaining why it is so important that we remove them before they can grow and cause harm. I wonder how we let these intangible rosettes linger, how we didn’t pull them before they grew and started on their mission to strangle. I hear my grandmother instructing me to put on the leather gloves because even though the rosette has become a full-grown bull thistle, it cannot stay. Even if the thistles hurt us in their removal, we must try to protect the flowers.
Considering this, I have realized a couple additional important things.
One, this world is garden, and it is lovely. I am one of its many beautiful and unique flowers. Every flower has its own needs, but each one, even each thistle, requires, craves, love and support. As a flower, I deserve a place in the living tapestry that I help to create. I am entitled to thrive and blossom to my fullest potential, my biggest and most gorgeous self, just as every other flower is entitled to the same. The garden is an imperfect place, but it belongs to the flowers. Even if it can’t always be seen, the garden’s beauty is improved with each and every flower it holds.
Two, if I am a flower, I am also a gardener, tasked with donning the leather gloves, getting in the dirt, and doing my best to care for my fellow flowers. It is my duty to address the thistles and not let them grow unchecked. The thistles don’t know how much harm they cause nor how capable they are of hurting other flowers, and they don’t know how wrong they are unless they are told. Unless someone cares enough to reach out, they will only spread and sprout more rosettes that become more bull thistles. The flowers are also the gardeners that can be the compassionate hands to guide the thistles to a new way of being.
There will always be thistles but imagine how beautiful our garden could be if the thistles learned that they are flowers, too.