A Little Less Industrious
Working with what’s already here
by Taylor Reed
Like this time last year, I’m struggling to keep up with mowing. Everything around me keeps growing and growing, all without my tending. One of my favorite things about where we’re at is its beauty and topographical character. But this part of the year, each year, the expectations of the expanse and the hills we’re on pile up. Every few days, I muster up some energy and get things rolling despite work, firewood, home repairs, and kids all calling my name. But once I’m out there, mowing through upright milkweed stalks, watching them bend at first and then walking over the mulched greenery, something seems incongruent.
We aren’t harvesting much from our home garden these days. It’s beautiful, biodiverse, and going well, but as a relatively young garden mostly comprised of perennials, it isn’t offering competitive bumper crops just yet. And here I am, by the sweat of my brow, working against milkweed, which I know offers a harvest.
We’re working on some soil tests on the garden front to see how we might shift some green things into gear. But here, on this meadowy periphery, I only need to look down as I tromp through grasses to see what the land happily supports. It’s a whole lot of plants we didn’t plant — and good ones, too.
I pilfer a pod, head inside, and set it down on the kitchen table. It’s right there looking back at me. I glance at its profile, feel its little nubs, and wash the sap off of my hands. What can you do with a milkweed pod?
That’s a cultural question. When it comes to milkweed, I’m culturally deficient.
I have to read and ask around a bit to see who’s aware of the green pod’s possibilities. You know who knows? A whole lot of people who were here before us — and good ones, too.
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I won’t go into detail. The details belong to stories that aren’t mine to share. At one time, those who lived on this land, the very land I’m tired of mowing, knew common milkweed to be both medicine and food.
Milkweed played a role in meeting human needs, a bit of subsistence derived from what grew without intensive intervention. I don’t want to get lost in the weeds here, so I’ll be clear — there’s value in the knowledge that allows a culture to derive the materials for living from where they’re at. That knowledge results from a willingness to work with things as they are rather than waiting for idealized conditions, tools, or materials. While that approach calls for adjusting to localized circumstances and possibly bucking norms and preferences, it might ultimately flow quite naturally.
Another voice the mower drowns out is that of our garage calling for organizing. It’s full of junk. I mean, it’s full of hand tools, solar panels, scrap wood, gardening equipment, bicycles, rigid foam boards, and other useful things, but because I’ve neglected to organize it meaningfully, it’s a mess. Good luck navigating it, let alone finding the the tools you need. (Unless you need a teetering tower of somewhat greasy pizza boxes awaiting burning — that pile’s easy to find.) There’s no way around it. It needs some care.
So why am I mowing instead of sorting and pitching? If this land is feral for a short time, it becomes unnavigable. It harbors ticks. It doesn’t offer hay. I’m not looking for that wild, wooly and unruly right now, especially when my response is limited to a simple push mower. I’ve gotta manage that grass. I trudge along and consider some alternatives to the mower.
Prescribed burning? Nope, I’m not up to that right now.
Feral sheep? Maybe on Orchard Hill Road, but I have yet to see any here on Carpenter.
A brush hog? Nah, that’s definitely not already here.
Somewhere tucked into our garage, we have a few scythes. They have the potential to keep the woody brush from taking hold in the meadow, and they let me work nimbly and selectively through and around swaths of mixed plant species. From stories I’ve heard, clutches of rabbits too. The scythe is darn near silent compared to a mower — just a rhythmic swish. And it’s less taxing on my body but still vigorous. It’s not nearly as fast as our mower, especially with me at the scythe’s helm, but if I’m tending at the right scale, being a bit less industrious isn’t a dealbreaker.
A milkweed pod is a small thing. So is a scythe. I’m only beginning to grasp the possibilities of both. It’ll take some learning and practice to understand how they fit into our lives. But a whole lot of small things, appropriate for different situations and contexts, sure add up. So here’s a gentle reminder to reflect on what’s needed and how we meet those needs. Noticing, remembering, inquiring — those are first steps in growing a connection to place and finding ways to meet needs somewhat naturally. By that, I mean in ways that tend to thrive regardless of whether or not all your weight is thrown behind them.
Shouldering the burden of resisting all gears of an industrial behemoth is ill-advised. But finding ways to partner with what’s already in a place rather than laboring against it can be a joy and rest — a genuine part of participating in a world that’s a little less industrious.
