A partially weeded section of our front yard. I’m trying, for Pete’s sake!!

SPRING is a time of combat, at least here in suburban Pennsylvania. The greens are on the move. They are lush, vibrant and unstoppable. Lilacs, azaleas, verdant lawns and an infinitude of flowering plants fill our lungs with their sweet, restoring exhalations.

But the weeds have returned too, amassed in military-style battalions with age-old strategies of invasion and conquest, some operating with sneak attacks or guerilla warfare, others blitzkrieg-ing entire neighborhoods within a few hours.

They may have delicate and colorful flowers. They may be as fragrant as expensive perfumes, but they will spread and dominate all other plants if they get their way. They  mean to conquer. In May, invasive vines would wrap their tendrils around our necks at night if we let them do what they naturally do and if we did not engage in backbreaking battles with them, like mariners in a storm holding the sails against the towering waves crashing over our heads. I have seen grape vine trying to get in our bedroom windows. I have told my husband that if I die before him, he must evacuate the property immediately. Otherwise he will be murdered by honeysuckle. I currently have Weed-Induced Cardio-Muscular-Skeletal Fatigue Syndrome.

The people who defend weeds and say they should generally be left alone are barbarians with no appreciation for order and beauty. You cannot love some plants unless you hate others.

We can’t shoot weeds with guns unfortunately and we shouldn’t douse them in chemical poisons, except in exceptional cases, because that would be to engage in an unfair advantage over them. Bombing our yards is a tempting idea, but probably too destructive. Sometimes there is no choice but to-the-death wrestling matches. This is war, but no victory is final. Cardboard can do a lot to stifle weeds and now that Amazon has put everyone else out of business every yard in existence could be paved with cardboard. But there is no trick to overcoming weeds completely except the unpleasant, boring, hand-to-root struggle. Weeds, especially those with roots that seem to traverse miles into the bowels of the earth, are a disturbingly persuasive argument for the institution of human slavery. I’m going to go so far as to say, weeds created slavery in the dawning years of agriculture, eons before Monsanto was causing human cancer with its herbicides. It’s only when I’m weeding that I have outrageous sympathies with plantation owners and contemplate how sweet spring would be if I only owned two nice slaves. (I know I would treat them better than Amazon treats its slaves.)

Weeds are a reminder that something has fundamentally gone wrong in Paradise. Nature has mixed feelings about us. Weeds are also a reminder that if you don’t attack a problem at its roots, you will not overcome it, a lesson that can be applied to every other arena of life. Pull its shoots and a weed will return, positively energized by the pruning. Attack the symptoms of a disease only and it will likely return with a vengeance.

If you are ever tempted to despair by the vindictive powers of unwanted vegetation, please remember that if the forces that make weeds so lush and abundant did not exist — if the warm temperatures and abundant rains never came — neither would the plants that claim our affections. In deserts, there are no weeds and there are no gardens either. I have no idea what people who live in deserts do in the spring. I guess they play cards or watch a lot of TV. Anyway, the conditions that create weeds create the vegetative splendors of spring, a season which trembles and sings, in perfect harmony with spiritual realities.

The people who enjoy spring most are probably the young and property-less who don’t notice weeds and have no idea how much the human management of vegetation costs. They actually think nature is natural. There is a time in life for this inspiring ignorance. I wouldn’t wish the wisdom weeds bring on anyone.

Still, weeds are truly a small price to pay for the lavish gifts of spring. No matter what is happening in the world, spring returns. Did you notice that? Spring cannot be held back or canceled. Supreme Court “justices” cannot issue a ruling that spring is over. They can do that with marriage and human life — they can say they no longer exist — but not spring. I know the global control freaks are trying their best to engineer the weather and to muddy the skies every day to create just the right cloudy, totalitarian look, but the daffodils and dandelions just laugh at them so far.

When slaving away in our personal jungle, I sometimes hear an oriole whistling overhead.

“I am overjoyed,” he says to his mate. “Come, fly with me.”

Who wouldn’t marry a bird like that?

The thought that a few unwanted vines may hold together the pair’s invisible love nest high up in a tree uplifts and exalts the weeder. All of life is inescapably intertwined.

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