As I continue life on the homestead, I find that my life has begun to fall into multiple rhythms—a symphony of tasks that must be completed at specific times in the day, month, and year. I feed and water the animals in the morning and in the evening. I pull weeds from the garden beds each week. I plant seeds at the start of the summer and I harvest vegetables at the end.
Understanding the natural rhythms of the land and learning how to make myself a part of them have been crucial to my success. I learned the hard way that trying to “power through” during the hottest part of the day doesn’t enable me to complete more work. It just leaves me tired and exhausted. And I know that planting seeds too early in the season is a good way to ensure the seedlings die of frost.
Recently, I took part in the mulching rhythm of homestead life. Garden beds are a magnet for weeds. The fertile soil that allows vegetables and flowers to grow is a cornucopia of nutrients for weeds that have evolved to grow in poor soil. Seeds are blown into the beds by the wind. Some are dropped in by birds. And I’m sure I accidentally plant a few as my soil covered hands move from one place to the next.
The end result is that I’m constantly working to remove unwanted plants from the bed before they can rob nutrients from the vegetables and flowers that I’m trying to grow.
There is an irony here because Buddhism teaches us that acceptance is a large part of the practice. We must accept the practice schedule of the temple even when we are tired. We must accept the food we are given during a retreat even if we don’t like it. We must accept the pain in our legs during meditation—not moving until the bell rings.
But harrowing experiences in my personal life and in farming have taught me that we must not be accepting of all things. Things that are harmful, things that are dangerous, things that are immoral can and must be rejected. To do otherwise causes unnecessary suffering for ourselves and others.
We see this in the teachings of the Noble Eightfold Path, wherein the Buddha tells us to reject wrong speech, wrong action, and wrong livelihood.
As such, the weeds have to go. More than that, I need to work and make it harder for them to come back. As a rule, I avoid the use of herbicides in the garden as I don’t want to harm the earthworms and soil microbes that contribute to my plants’ health, but that requires me to use a different method for weed control.
Mulch.
Once the seedlings have poked their heads above the soil and begun their endless pursuit of the light, I lay two to three inches of organic straw at their feet. By covering the bare soil around them I make it harder for unwanted seeds that fall into the bed to germinate. Additionally, any weed seeds that are lying dormant in the soil are denied the moisture and warmth that they would need to grow. In addition to weed suppression, however, there are other benefits.
As the straw breaks down, it provides food for the earth worms and soil microbes that I mentioned earlier. It also adds carbon to the soil, increasing water retention and making the plants more drought resistant. Additionally, it provides nutrients that assist in root growth, adding to the longevity and overall health of the crops.
Thus, my rejection of weeds allows me to care for other, more life-affirming parts of my life. When I remove them from the garden, I protect the flowers that grow near them. When I suppress them with straw, I feed the vegetables that are competing with them for light.
It is in the skillful rejection of unhealthy, immoral things that we as Buddhists can nurture the delicate, important aspects of our lives.
For example, when we turn away from the poisonous weeds of greed, anger, and ignorance, we create space for the flowers of generosity, equanimity, and wisdom to bloom. More than that, we give ourselves the spiritual nutrition necessary to support future growth in our Buddhist practice.
When we lay down the “mulch” of meditation, chanting, and sutra study, we make it harder for the three poisons to rise up in the future. And when they do, they are much easier to pluck out of our minds in the way we might pluck an errant blade of grass from a flower bed.
I think about these things each year as I haul out the bales of hay to mulch my garden, pondering the new growth that will come from this extra layer of protection.
Namu Amida Butsu
Related features from BDG
Impermanence, It Is Only Natural
The Activism of Available Time
Metta Bagged Up
Concerning Right Effort
