Plants and Purposes...

At my work, there is a fountain, made of little boulders plucked from those magical rock trees found at landscaping supply stores and placed together in a visually artistic manner so as to form precise, pleasant waterfall for city dwellers who wish to experience what my mother calls the outdoors. And, of course, our little piece of the wild comes with its own little sign that reads “Please stay off the rocks”—the unwritten sentiment being that this waterfall is fragile…or that we don’t want to be sued for anybody’s idiotic stunts.

The waterfall is flanked on either side by bushes. Now, I am not a botanist, so I cannot tell you their scientific name; and doubtless you could understand me if I did—such names generally employing dead languages. But to use a living language, these plants are the sort for which the word “rushes” springs to mind. As “rushes” their stalks fluff out and portray the appearance of covering more ground than is actually true. Quite a beautiful splattering of yellows, browns and greens with a hint of purple when the breeze flutters through. And herein lies my purpose for writing today.

Yesterday, it was decided by the “powers that be” that our lovely rushes has rushed too much. At lunch I went out to sit by the waterfall and its fluffy comrades to enjoy the glimmer of the wild they offered only to find that some mechanical machete had chopped all around them. They were as ladies in ball gowns whose hoopskirts had been cut off and their ankles scandalously exposed. My in-rage (I cannot call it out-rage because I said nothing except to the voices in my head) was slightly tempered by the humorous element of the picture. The tops had not been disgraced; the stalks growing vertically looked much like the ostrich feathers the rushes would have crowned their hairdos with had they truly been ladies at a ball.

But alack and alas, today I found even that proud dignity had been sheered from them. Our perfect waterfall scene is now surrounded by embarrassed nude nubs waiting to re-grow their finery. Surely, the bushes had not been hurting any one with their private gala. Why were they so savagely pruned?

As I was protesting on the state of the rushes to my co-worker, she remarked that this is the way that such bushes must be dealt with—that they are merely domesticated grasses and must be cut back severely or they would “get out of hand.” The way in which she phrased her comment made me pause. How would this situation have been handled elsewhere?

Had these rushes had the privilege of being born in an English garden, they would have been trimmed daily. Each day they would have looked their best, like a woman’s haircut after visiting “Dominic.” Their role in the garden would have been precise, suited to what they are and what the gardener desired. But they would have never been allowed the slightest hint of wild, for fear of it upsetting the balance in the rest of the garden.

Suppose our rushes were planted in the Philippines. They would have never experienced a blade. Natural rain would be their food and the open sky their home. Goliath contests would be their pastime. That is, until someone decided they were a danger and set fire to their field of dreams.

Instead, the rushes were used in a pseudo-landscape in these United States. Engorged with water, they responded as only they could—they grew. And their beauty was appreciated for a time. But one day, someone turned around and realized they had grown outside the invisible box they were supposed to stay in. And rather than trimming them back within the box, they were cruelly slapped back, half out of laziness, so that trimming would not have to happen again for some time, and half as a cutting punishment for not staying where they were wanted.

Now, I cannot draw any conclusions from the first two countries which our rushes might have grown because I have not lived there. I will leave that to those who have lived there. These comments are mere observations on the state of plants in both respective lands. However, for America, I feel as though I may, having lived here all but a few months of my life.

How often have the roles in my life been unspoken or their boundaries understood not verbally defined? I think that the concept of a box that Americans have may be a vestige from our English forefathers. But we hold individuality much higher. Therefore, we sometimes find it difficult to verbally or physically set forth the height, depth and width of whatever box is currently being dealt with. The result, at least for me, is when the wild crosses one step over too far is backlash, much like the chopping back of the rushes.

I like the wild; it’s one reason I visit the waterfall almost every lunch. It reminds me of how God created nature. He did start with a garden. And it was good. I wonder which approach to gardening He would have chosen in Eden—the British, the Philipino, the American? I kind of doubt He would have completely chosen any. While He would have allowed His rushes to grow as they pleased, “as they pleased” would have been within His will—they would have known their role and have been glad to stay within it because it was not a box, it was a gift.

Taking this little mental rabbit trail with disgraced rushes reminds me of how my response to the roles I have today should be. I do not wish to err toward any of the three gardening options. I doubt I will have much success convincing my geraniums with the above argument, but I am certain of victory with my heart, for I have the greatest Gardener pruning me.