By Betsy Korona
Photos courtesy of the author

Have you ever wrestled with a dandelion root? Stubborn son-of-a-gun. Long before the formation of bright yellow flowers or the fluffy seed balls wishes are made of, those roots wedge down deep. A single taproot winds 6 to 18 inches down. Green toothed leaves—“lion’s tooth”—taunt upward: “Come on, try me!” But the plant has the advantage. Leave even a smidge of that root and it’ll be right back.

Taraxacum officinale—“Dan-dee-lye-on” to you—has a potential lifespan of 13 years, spreads thousands of seeds annually, and is, of course, only one of many Western Massachusetts garden foes. I’ve learned there’s also plenty of creeping wood sorrel, knotweed, and broadleaf plantain to contend with. Keeping them in check is an unglamorous summer requirement.

I talk smack to my weeds. “Oh yeah, oh yeah dandelion, think you’re so pretty?” “What you got, spurge?” “Get off my lawn, goutweed.” As we trade barbs and blows, injuries are inevitable. And, unsurprisingly, the weeds often win. An overgrown mugwort swings back and hits me in the forehead. The glow from my hour-long bout with goutweed invading our blue rug juniper turns out to be a stinging rash that slowly spreads up my hand and lower arm. To feel compelled to fight these battles no matter the outcome, to be unable to walk by without dropping everything and glovelessly take them on is a particular form of obsession—one I’ve developed only recently.

I first weeded when I was pushing 40—the result of an adult life spent in places with more pavement than peonies. As a little girl in Alexandria, I remember trailing my grandmother in her community garden, chewing mint leaves, picking string beans and snap peas, watering our rows and treating ourselves to sun-ripened raspberries on the way out. Having fun at grandma’s side, I never even noticed a weed.

Bouncing between cities as an adult, my mastery of horticulture extended only to two 8-foot-tall cherry tomato plants that somehow managed to thrive in an especially sunny Brooklyn one-bedroom.

The first time I properly weeded was at my best friend’s house in 2020. I’d moved in with her, her husband, and three young kids during COVID. As a pod, we balanced executive-level careers with making sure everyone was fed, watered, and tended to. I’d tried, in those days, to show my gratitude for their companionship by helping where I could, and one day I saw my friend plucking at some unwanted green things popping through pavers in the front yard.

This would become my new conference call ritual. When not required to be on camera or presenting at meetings that didn’t require intense concentration or note-taking, I’d put in my AirPods, head out front, and hunt for weeds. Little did I know that what I hoped was a helpful gesture would evolve into an unexpected pleasure.

Weeding is maddening. But, call me crazy, it’s also incredibly soul-satisfying. Your hands will get dirty no matter the gloves. The earth finds a way to get under your skin. You will sweat. You will struggle with shoots dug in deep. Some you’ll snap. And some you’ll defeat and dislodge root to tip in a single satisfying swipe.

Weeding requires time and it’s easy to lose yourself in music, find inspiration in an audiobook or simply think. As I grip and pull, a knotted career challenge loosens in my mind. The running grocery list and unanswered emails fade out of focus. Florence + The Machine flows from my ears to my fingers, powering me on. My brain gives me a break and stops talking to me—drowned out by these compulsive moments.

And I can’t stop. Once seen, I can’t unsee them. I spend hours unlocking whole swaths of garden dirt, excavating layer by layer, and meticulously sifting out spaghetti-like tendrils. Consumed by an urgent need to keep going. Getting every last one. The repetition becomes meditation. Obsession dissolves into peace, a soothing rhythm. The final weed pile is ultimately as much of a prize as the newly spruced-up space.

Taking a break from big media and the big city these days, I find myself putzing around the yard often. To say I’m a gardening novice is an understatement. One thing I can do, however—if given proper direction on what to avoid (sorry, echinacea)—is weed.

In this moment of transition, when I’m not totally sure of my next steps, I can stand in one place. Focus on one simple task. The weed vs. me. Strategize, commit, go. The immediate outcome: an accomplishment or perhaps a frenemy to revisit another day. And in that simplicity, I find clarity. The weeds offer both constancy and resilience. They will keep growing. And so will I.