Tentative Truths

We humans have a need to know the truth. Indeed, all animals do. The principle reason for all Earth's creatures to seek the truth is simply to survive. The closer a critter's perception of the truth—the more accurate its view of reality—the better its chances of living until tomorrow. That's a universal drive of all life forms. But we humans—with our high-level cognition—take it a step or two further. We not only want the truth, but we recognize that there are layers of truth. Is this thing really true? Is my truth better than yours? On such questions the foundations of philosophy rest.

Science has its own view of truth: that it is something we never fully possess; that it is elusive; and that tomorrow's truth will negate today's. Those who lean toward the established religions tend to differ; many of them consider the Truth (capital T) to have been revealed long ago and is recorded in scripture.

I had an interesting experience about truth recently. It showed me that my ingrained assumptions about what is truthful may not always be valid; or at least that they are incomplete and/or biased and can use some periodic revision. I had paused briefly (to pee, to be truthful) by the little creek that runs by the clearing and found myself idly gazing at a scrubby brush growing at the water's edge. What an unsightly little bush! Maybe I should go and get the hand saw and cut it down, so it doesn't block my view of the picturesque stream.

Because I had a moment or two to be with my thought (about as long as it takes to empty my bladder), I began to question my assumptions about the plant's unappealing appearance. Is it really ugly? Can I choose not to see it's drabness? Isn't ugly in the eye of the beholder? Who am I to christen one plant as pretty and another as plain? What's the truth?

I have often pondered which plants to nurture and which to cull. In the first few years living out here I leaned toward importing so-called desirable (read: cultivated) trees and shrubs. I soon discovered, however, that most of them soon became undesirable—when they succumbed to diseases and various critter assaults, or required exceptional coddling. I soon came to appreciate many of Mother Nature's trees and shrubs—plants that may have looked unattractive in the woods, but when transplanted to the clearing where they had little competition for sunlight, became gorgeous. Besides, they had long ago adapted to the local environment and all its challenges and didn't require coddling.

So what is a weed? What's not a weed? To some extent, it's truly in the eye of the beholder. We decide. The dictionary tells me a weed is “a wild plant growing where it is not wanted and in competition with cultivated plants.” Well, that sure captures some of our prejudices! I decide where it's not wanted. I decide when it's in competition with a cultivated plant. I even decide what's cultivated and what's not. It makes me wonder: when I transplant a homely little sapling from the woods into the sunny clearing and prune it, does that make it a little bit cultivated?

We humans disrespect weeds, while Mother Nature has given them a critical task: quickly and vigorously to reclaim an area that's been wiped clear of vegetation, before the soil washes away; in the wake of forest fires, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and such other natural calamities. Weeds even rapidly reclaim human-caused disasters, such as warring fields.

Now, that said, if we are going to have a successful vegetable garden here on the homestead, we need to “weed” it. When we humans clear a patch of ground, fertilize it and keep it well-watered, weeds are going to out-compete our tender vegetables. Since most weeds taste bad or are toxic, we can't eat them. I'm afraid the result is that we kill and commit violence in the garden. It's us or them.

But where do we draw the line between a weed and a tomato? We have many natural plants growing around here. Some people would consider all of them weeds, but we've come to appreciate many of them for either their appearance or utility. “Jewel weed” has a pretty blossom, and juices in the plant can clear up poison ivy rashes. Pennyroyal is a tiny, homely plant whose dried leaves repel ants. Spring beauty is a wildflower (about as hardy as a “weed”) that has become one of my favorites. Autumn olive is a scrubby, invasive bush tree that grows even faster than most weeds, yet yields a good-tasting berry that possesses more lycopene than a tomato. Wild plum trees do poorly in the woods (crowded out by larger trees), but when transplanted to the clearing they become bonsai-like beauties that fill the spring air with intoxicating perfume.

I can create a lot of unnecessary work for myself if I get overzealous in my definition of a weed, which then forces me to expend much time and energy trying to eradicate or tame them. Why not put that effort into other things and let some of the weeds be? Can I find ways to encourage their natural beauty? They are finding ways to teach me to let go of some of my prejudices.