Attack of the weeds

So I walk into my yard. Reluctantly, optimistically, doubtfully. Optimistic for the flowers and vegetables that could be, reluctant – given the weeds that await me, doubtful of how far I will get this year.

I walk bravely into the yard. Studying the overall unkemptness, I sigh big, tragic sighs. Think small, I tell myself. Obediently, I focus my attention on two vegetable beds. I decide to tackle the weeds and prep the soil.

I start plucking away at the weeds. Have I mentioned the therapeutic effects of weeding? Sometimes I wish I could pluck out all the problems in my life, the same way. Sometimes I imagine I am plucking away the problems in my life. Pluck…pluck…pluck…

(Now, if any of you are convinced of this therapy, I will tell you where I live, there will be plenty of therapy and meditation for you to practice. Hmm… Tom Sawyer and whitewash wall, come to mind, anyone?). Hmm… moving on…

My gloved hand reaches into a clump of weeds – to seize their last breath, to deliver the cruel kiss of death… when suddenly I am under attack! The weeds fight back!

They blast countless, minuscule green things all over me. Aphids – I think in dismay. There will be no planting this year, more dismay (some relief?). Willing and rather quick to give up, I pick the few weeds I have disturbed. Nothing springs up. I don’t see any aphids. Now most gardeners would know stuff like this, but since I’m only a phony, I am curious and peer down to see teeny tiny, green, wound up thingies (I know, I know - very eloquent and educated descriptions).

I poke another set – and right there, I’m under attack again! I sputter as tiny green things fly all over my face. What!! I’m being attacked by the weeds? Just how low am I on the food chain and how did I get here?

Determined to get to the root of this (bad pun and everything), and attempting to maintain my dignity before the weeds, I poke at the same weed (already disturbed). Nothing flies out. Ah… it’s their defense mechanism. I find a long, tall rake to outsmart them. I poke around and let things fly out wildly.

Later, as I bend down and yank away, I mentally murmur an apology for circumventing their beautiful nature-designed defense mechanism. I can’t but admire nature who equips even these frail weeds with means to defend themselves.

Defense mechanisms may be a thing of beauty. Well literally… as my mind wanders to years ago, to a balmy night in a bioluminescent bay. A guide takes our small group on a midnight kayak tour into the bay, on a near new moon night. I wonder what I have got us into (of course, this would have to have been my idea), as my muddy legs wade through the dark, marshy bog as we drag our kayaks into the bay. But the moment we climb in and oar away, all doubts dissolve into the bioluminescence.

The water around the kayak lights up, the water at the end of the oar lights up. My hand draws a line through the water. A line of light forms where my fingers have been. I revel in the disbelief of it all.  

We reach the middle of the bay, tie the kayaks together and swim in the balmy waters. We swim in speechless awe. We swim as light forms all around us, circular halos floating in the dark waters.

The marvel of the moments is from an extremely high concentration of algae in the bay. Their defense mechanism is to emit light when disturbed. Even if the light we generated by our movements in water seemed like poetry to us, it was disturbance to them.

I remember noticing the irony. I remember thanking the algae for allowing us to scare them, for allowing us to experience immense beauty in their fear, in their defense mechanism.

Till I get stung by jelly fish. Talk about defense mechanism. Only two individuals in the group get stung. And of course, one has to be – yours truly. Even if I retreat meekly to my kayak, even if my hand hurts like crazy, I remain in awe of nature, of interactions between species, of inner-programming of self-defense, of attempts to ward off the stronger species.  

What about us humans? We too have our defense mechanisms. Each of us develops uniquely our own set above and beyond what we innately possess. At times, they may be useful, at times, I suspect may come in the way of our happiness. And a few people may already know how to circumvent them with the long, tall rake they may use for us.

I suppose they are there for a reason, and we develop them for a reason, for self-protection, for guarding. But a mechanism, a learned response, may be hard to unwind from, even when we don’t need it. What are our defense mechanisms? How many of those do we need? Can we let them rest, knowing they will spring up when we really truly need them.
Can we let our guards down, knowing they will be there if and when we need them?

And perhaps there is beauty and vulnerability in these defense mechanism, just like the algae in the bioluminescent bay. And maybe it's okay to hold them in compassion and see its luminescent wonder, even if it stems from fear.


 

Te bagh…

The energy is bristling. 105 teams comprising kids from nearly 40 countries. The Lego World Championship is loud, noisy, high-energy, exhausting, amazing.

So much to take in. So much innovation and ingenuity at so many levels. Even if our young team of 4^th and 5^th graders widen their eyes and drop their jaws as they watch the big robots battle and form alliances (robots that high schoolers have built), I wonder how much of all this they are able to take in.

A zillion fun and exciting things happen. They meet kids from all over the world, they collect candy from all over the world. Sugar-rushed, they run, they leap, they shout, they even participate in a parade before a Cardinals game at the ballpark. They take it in. Yet, I notice amazing things – things they may be too young to comprehend.

A certain Middle Eastern team catches my eye. A mixed team of girls and boys. The girls are traditionally dressed in their hijab or head scarves. Yet team, or perhaps teen spirit seems to rule, and multi-colored dazzling lighted neon strings pour out from over their heads, from over their black hijabs. They match nicely the multi-colored neon head gears the boys wear. It makes me smile. I love these girls, conforming to their beliefs, yet displaying their teenage spirit and verve.

I wonder what it must mean for these girls to be part of a robotics team, to be here. I chat with them. I understand there are familial and societal challenges they have overcome, that it means so much for them to be here, that their participation is an inspiration to other girls in their country, in the Middle East region. I feel an inexplicable joy at their being there.  

“You ask me to bagh a lot” my kid tells me. Puzzled, till I realize she’s using a Marathi word in an English sentence.

“Te bagh,” I often say to her in Marathi, check that out, in English. Something noteworthy, notice-worthy -- according to me. I laugh. I suppose I do.

As parents, we want to point out what is interesting, important, curious, worth noticing… in our eyes. Our kids have their own energy and perspectives – which even if may not match ours, is a joy to share in, share with.

On their last robot performance round, seven small faces stare intensely at the robot table. Previous rounds have not gone quite as desired and on one round, their pineapple bot (robot name), even decides to power down.

Every part of their being seems to focus on the robot. For months on end, this pineapple bot has been programmed and reprogrammed, its limbs (read extensions) built and rebuilt, amputated, restored, tweaked, teased… its moment has arrived. And pineapple bot decides to rise to the occasion.

Even if the score is not high enough to win a prize, they achieve the best score possible for them. And they are beyond themselves in delight.

We watch them, we experience that inexplicable joy of watching your kids achieve the maximum potential possible for them.

There are tears in many a parent eye, the jubilation is bigger than the time they are declared state champions. For in that moment, each parent and child is completely present and participating, bated breath, and in tandem. We are experiencing the joy and success with them, through them. There is no prize, but victory seems huge.

We celebrate our children. As we must. Sometimes, we celebrate even when it seems like the last thing we want for them. As my then six-year-old climbs over 30 feet high on a conifer in the park, calling out, waving in delight with one hand. I gasp inwardly, and in the best even-keel voice possible, shout, “It’s okay to not wave when you’re so high”. I hide my panic and share her achievement and joy.

The joy in sharing their joy and perspective is inexplicable. Even if it is ours, it is bigger and better than many things that bring us joy in other ways. But again, every parent knows that.

And even if my child doesn't say te bagh to me, hopefully, when it matters, I will bagh, and I will share the moment...