A Man & A Weed
Every year, I see something different on people’s lawns. Last year, Sticky Willie (Galium aparine), a type of Cleaver, was all over everyone’s grass. In which case, if you needed an herb for psoriasis, acne, or eczema, Sticky Willie would be a good choice. This year, it seems that Horseweed (Conyza Canadensis) was present in full ranks. I mean, it’s everywhere—a truly interesting plant. Back when a man and a plant, or more specifically, what we collectively refer to as ‘weed,’ had an understanding, Horseweed was dried and spread on farm animals’ bedding to prevent fleas. Fleas are not fond of Horseweed, which earns it another name, Fleabane. Native Americans used it to help with rhinitis, which, even in today’s world, would be quite handy as it grows (at least in Central TX) at the same time when we are all sick with allergies, walking around with bloodshot eyes and swollen noses. There is no doubt that our nasal cavities would need help with inflammation. That is how it is with nature—a cure is available at the same time and in the same geography where sickness likes to take residence. If you had a dry cough or a sore throat, folk medicine also pointed to Horseweed as one of the options. What happened, you may ask? Oh,… many things I’d say: industrialization, our unquenchable desire to have everything faster. Speed, or most of us like a more business-like word, ‘efficiency,’ is a type of god.
Gone are the times when a man and a weed, at least this particular one, as it can easily grow to six feet tall, eyeballed each other with respect. These days, farmers hate Horseweed. The plant disseminates quickly, as all it needs is wind. There is no controlling it. Very few chemicals can kill it. It laughs at Roundup. I grew up in a very agrarian society where there was a certain awe of nature, a healthy understanding that in the end, nature, be it plants or water or wind, will do what it wants. In today’s world, here in North America, I often feel we only pay attention when nature wants to get attention in a grotesque, horrific way. It is like a child who doesn’t get enough attention, so it throws a tantrum, an angry fit, and then we listen. I can’t help but think that plants have gone silent, but they weren’t always. Their wisdom retreated deep beneath their roots. We may have a cancer cure within reach and won’t know until some accident. We spray and cut and poison because it’s fast, convenient, requiring no negotiating with a plant, no give-and-take (Why …, if we can just … take?), succumbing to a game of a never-satisfied beast of supply and demand and world economics. But I invite you to listen. There are whispers in the silence, not just grass blades clinking against each other or leaves rustling. Did you know trees actually scream, and the mother tree can find its seedlings faaaaaarrrrr away and help in distress? If we don’t listen, we won’t understand, and if we don’t understand, nature will make us understand (it usually ends up tragically). But the greatest tragedy is not the power with which nature can sweep through the human world but all the good it withholds from us. We no longer ask. But what if we did?
