The Old Blog in the Desert

The flower garden had not always been wild.

Once it had been orderly and bright, a place where roses stood in dignified rows, tulips kept their colors polished, and daisies chatted cheerfully in the sun.

Paths trimmed, soil turned, and weeds, when they appeared, were quietly removed.

The gardener had seen to that.

In the early years, the gardener walked the beds every day, sleeves rolled, hands in the dirt.

“Everything grows,” he used to say. “But not everything belongs everywhere.”

The flowers respected him for it.

When a stray weed appeared, he would pinch it from the soil and toss it over the fence.

The garden remained peaceful, not because weeds never came, but because someone cared enough to keep watch over the flower beds.

But time passed, and the gardener changed.

He built himself a comfortable chair on the porch overlooking the garden.

From there, he could see the colors without getting soil on his hands.

At first, he still walked down occasionally.

Then less often.

One afternoon, the Rose called up toward the porch.

“Gardener,” she said politely, “there are weeds growing near the fence.”

The gardener waved lazily.

“They’re small,” he replied. “And besides, the garden seems lively with them.”

The Tulips whispered among themselves.

“But weeds grow quickly,” one said.

The gardener shrugged.

“Growth is growth,” he said. “And besides, pulling weeds takes effort.”

What truly occupied him now were the visitors who came to the porch.

They praised the garden.

“What a magnificent place you oversee,” they told him.

The gardener liked hearing this.

Very much.

Soon, he discovered that visitors often brought gifts, coins, favors, small comforts, so long as he remained the gardener in name.

Actually, gardening, however, brought him nothing but dirt under the fingernails.

So he stopped.

Days passed.

Then one morning, a yellow head popped up between the marigolds.

“Good day!” said the newcomer brightly.

The Daisies turned.

“Well, hello there,” one said. “Who might you be?”

“Dandelion,” he said proudly. “I’ve come to enjoy this fine garden. Plenty of sunlight here.”

The Rose frowned.

“This is a cultivated bed.”

“Of course,” said the Dandelion pleasantly. “That’s what makes it so attractive.”

No gardener came to pull him out.

Soon another appeared.

Then ten.

Then a hundred.

They were cheerful fellows, always smiling.

“Wonderful soil you have here,” they would say.

“Room for everyone.”

“Plenty of sunshine to share.”

The flowers grew uneasy.

“Should someone tell the gardener?” asked a Tulip.

But when they looked toward the porch, he was busy speaking with admirers.

The weeds multiplied with impressive efficiency.

Bindweed arrived and began wrapping around stems.

“Just holding on,” he explained pleasantly.

Thistle came next, silent and stubborn.

Crabgrass followed, spreading low and wide like a green carpet.

The flowers began to struggle.

The Daisies lost their space first.

“I cannot breathe,” one whispered as weeds crowded her roots.

The Tulips bent sideways, starved for light.

“Surely the gardener will notice,” they said.

He noticed.

By the second summer, the weeds had grown thick.

The gardener saw this clearly from his porch.

At first, he had worried that the garden might become unmanageable.

But in time, he discovered something useful: the weeds admired him.

“Best gardener the garden has ever had!” the dandelions called.

“We have never grown so freely!” shouted the bindweed.

Visitors to the porch nodded approvingly.

“A thriving garden,” they said.

The gardener smiled and accepted their compliments.

He had not pulled a weed in months.

Among the flowers, there was unease.

“We are losing the beds,” said a Tulip.

“Something needs to be done,” said the Roses.

But the Daisies shook their heads nervously.

“The gardener knows what he is doing,” one said.

“Yes,” said another. “Surely he sees what we see.”

A few flowers tried to protest louder.

But the weeds laughed.

“Look how they complain,” said the dandelions. “They fear change.”

Soon, a phrase spread through the garden.

Any flower that complained about weeds got accused of phobia-this and phobic-that.

The gardener heard the arguments and found them convenient.

They required nothing from him.

Autumn came.

The Roses held on stubbornly, though the bindweed wrapped tightly around their stems.

One evening, the last Rose called toward the porch.

“Gardener,” she said weakly, “the garden is dying.”

The gardener leaned forward and studied the beds.

What he saw was a thick, noisy field of weeds praising his leadership.

Behind them, a few struggling flowers.

He sat back again.

“Everything grows,” he said calmly.

And the weeds cheered.

The following spring, the last flower failed to return.

The garden was now entirely weeds, bright dandelions, creeping grass, thistles, and vines.

They argued constantly about sunlight but agreed on one thing.

“This is the finest garden that has ever existed,” they said.

The gardener heard them from his porch and nodded politely.

The visitors nodded approvingly.

The gardener smiled and adjusted his chair.

Removing the weeds now would anger many voices and bring no reward to his work.

So he did nothing.

The weeds flourished.

At last, the garden was a thick wilderness of dandelions, thistles, and tangled vines arguing for sunlight.

One windy evening, a sparrow landed on the old fence and looked around.

“Was there not once a garden here?” he asked.

“There still is,” said a Dandelion proudly.

“But there were flowers,” the sparrow said.

“Yes,” replied the Dandelion.

“What happened to them?”

The weeds considered this question carefully.

Finally, it looked toward the porch, where the gardener still sat comfortably in his chair.

“No one kept the garden,” he said.

The gardener had not pulled a weed in months.

It was the easiest garden he had ever managed.