Seeds

When applied to a plant, the phrase "gone to seed" is purely descriptive. Though most of us would agree that flowers in full bloom are prettier than those gone to seed, we can use the phrase without implying a negative judgement against the plant (actually, for a native plant gardener at this time of year, a desireable plant gone to seed is a welcome sight). Applied to things other than plants, the phrase means something is past its prime, unkempt, gone astray.

At the moment, both meanings apply to the meadow I keep in my backyard. Many of the plants--bergamot, black-eyed susans, fleabane, sunflowers, foxglove, geum, all the grasses--are going to seed, if they didn't get there weeks ago. Consequently, the meadow has taken on a rather slovenly look. Heavy with seeds, or taller than their bases can support, many plants are sagging groundward, strewn across one another. (The growth isn't dense enough in all spots for the plants to support their neighbors. On many the leaves have dried or turned gray with blight, and black or gray nubs remain where colorful petals once opened.

So a quick glance at the meadow, from a distance, gives an impression of faded beauty. On closer inspection, you encounter the literal seediness, and this can be unsettling. The lower leaves of most plants are covered with seeds of all kinds--some from "good" plants like bergamot or black eyed susans, though some from crabgrass, catnip, thistle, or of a truly insidious weed whose name I haven't yet found.

I've battled this monster for the last couple of years. It grows quickly, and looks much like a goldenrod until the buds open, revealing fluffy seed heads. An individual plant may have dozens of these, like a tiny, matured dandelion field in suspension. Last year, I thought these monsters were some kind of goldenrod until they opened, at which point I pulled all I could find. I got to most of them before they opened, and carried off most of the open ones without knocking seeds loose, but inevitably I did send some flying, and there were some I didn't notice until they'd unloaded their posterity on their own. So naturally, I had an abundant crop of the plants this year. I began pulling them as soon as I could identify them as young plants, and got most of them, but this week I noticed some that never grew grew more than shin high (left alone in plenty of sunlight, the plants can easily reach four feet) and had already seeded. As gently as I could, I uprooted these, trying not to knock off any seed. Inevitably, though, I did. Some of the seedheads were already bare. So next year I should have another mighty crop of these. A wild meadow, it seems, demands endless weeding.

Looking at seeds littering the leaves of black eyed susans, I ponder the future. Lying there is the potential for next year's beauty, or next year's disappointment and toil. We begin many enterprises with combined feelings of hope and dread. Cultivating this meadow, I also conclude with both at the end of the season. If you live for feelings of triumph, or require decisive outcomes, this is not your pastime.

Some nit-picky green studies theorists criticize native species gardening as a deluded attempt to restore a pure, Edenic landscape. They obviously haven't tried their hand at it. Few activities so convincingly demonstrate that we live, and despite our best efforts continue in, a realm of imperfection and uncertainty.