Wednesday was the new moon, so according to biodynamic principles we have a three day window on either side to start new seeds and plant seedlings that we started on the last new moon. To prepare for this time, I put forth a semi-frantic burst of action, harvesting the millet, amaranth, quinoa, corn, and flax. I have weeded and cleaned nine beds, roughly 1000 square feet, and now that the frenzy has slowed I am completely haunted by the Bermuda grass.

Yes, the amaranth was a stunning orange, and the yield from one bed was impressive and exciting. Sure, it was the first time I have seen quinoa growing in a garden, and it was delicious. The corn, millet, and flax can make fuel and feed nations, but on more than one occasion in the past week, I have had dreams (read: nightmares) about Bermuda grass.

After three days of weeding in the hot sun, with the sounds of birds and cars to keep me company, the rhizomatous pattern of this invasive weed probed its way into my subconscious. The grass creates a long chain, penetrating at least 8 inches deep (probably more) and it relentlessly spreads its way across any open ground. Its pattern is uniform, its behavior is consistent.

Preparing the beds for the winter crops, as is usually the case with gardening, I was left with my own thoughts. Daily, my hopes and fears surfaced as I thought about the state of the world in forty years. I continued to pull the Bermuda grass. The work developed a rhythm and the birds provided the melody.

For entertainment, or perhaps because it is harder to completely quiet the mind, I allowed my thoughts to create pictures of the future. On the fear end of the thought spectrum, I saw the suburban landscape as wasteland, ghetto, and desert. Cut off from cities, which were controlled by a repressive and authoritative government, there was hardly any productive human activity and the flow of goods and services was extremely limited. Visions such as these are demoralizing and self defeating, and one night last week, the night of the Bermuda grass nightmare, I allowed this perspective to darken my mood and disrupt the rest of my day.

Late last week the energy at Post Carbon Institute was infectious. There was a slew of activity as more than a dozen people came through for meetings, tours, and to see the new electric Ford Rangers. As I was working, I again let my mind entertain itself. This time, with so much collective energy focused on creating positive responses to global problems, visions of hope and renewal uplifted my day. The same communities that the day before were devastated by peak oil and climate change, were thriving. The pace of travel and the movement of goods were also slower, but the more densely planned neighborhoods were teeming with life. Gardens were in full bloom and there was laughter everywhere. People were riding bicycles and there were baskets offering surplus fruit in front of every house.

Needless to say, with visions of possibility and renewal, the Bermuda grass came out easier than when I imagined destruction. After a long and insightful week of garden maintenance, I notice a choice. I can label the Bermuda grass as an unwelcomed, invasive, and obnoxious problem. Certainly, that would have some truth. Or, I can see the plant for what it is. By covering the ground, breaking up the soil, and setting roots relentlessly, the plant is useful for certain functions.

Regardless of how I judge it, I want to model my activism and work after this fierce plant. Seeing the pattern of its growth, it is consistent, resourceful, and strong. It works in network with other strands of its family to create a comprehensive web that works underground and above the surface to create a movement that will never be nullified. In order to see my visions of hope and positive change come true, I will take this lesson in work ethic from a plant that I might otherwise label “invasive”.