The cold thorn truth is

There’s something oddly satisfying about gardening. Not the kind where you plant a speck of a seed and impatiently water it until a reluctant sprout finally pokes its head out.

I’m talking about staring down a patch of land, overgrown with unwanted weeds and unearthing the beauty waiting to be released from the strangling grip of nature’s hoodlums.

Picasso chipped away at everything that wasn’t a ceiling and painted a beautiful portrait of the  Sistine Chapel.

I too, snip, tug and chisel away at everything until my glorious garden of greenscape appears.

Well-earned sweat rolls down my face. My muscles strain in a tug-of-war competition with Mother Nature herself.

Our war rope is a prickly, deep-rooted vine.

Our battle is equal parts strength and will.

Mother Nature’s grip on the tether is strong, as is mine.

I grip the vine gingerly because Mother Nature sways the competition with thorns.  I am forced to rely on the weak strength of a thumb and finger grip. Thumb-finger by thumb-finger, I am able to inch myself along the vine closer to the ground, puncture-free. Finally, I reach the earth, disturbed from the few tugs I’ve made. My gardening shovel roots beneath the surface. With enough loosened dirt, I’m able to see into the vine’s foxhole.

Well, well, well Mother Nature, what have we here? The root of the vine, unblemished by the protective armor of thorns.

Able to grip the smooth vine with the full strength of my entire hand, I win the battle against  Mother Nature. I hoist the sprawling root high above my head like the severed war trophy it is. I throw the defeated vine on the ground with great aplomb.

Strewn amongst other vines who met a similar fate, I can see the gradual transition along the stem from delicate subterranean growth to thick vegetation with prickly, piercing spikes. Each vine reveals a chronological timeline of its life.

It starts its life in purity. A tender shoot, bursting forth, untouched, innocent, vulnerable and trusting. It is un-nurtured, yet also untainted.

An examination of my terrain excavation shows the gradual buildup of the sharp callouses. A response to the vine’s encounters with the complexities of earthly experiences.  Environmental challenges of harsh weather, pests, diseases, competition with other plants and being low-vine on the food chain are balanced with environmental embraces of hydration, sunlight and nourishment.

The plants develop thorns as a mechanical defense against the external threats that come with being in the produce aisles of the animal kingdom food stores.

Shoot, before I get hung out on the vine; if you’re a botanist (professional or practicing), let’s  acknowledge the colocasia in the room. I realize a thorn is not a spine is not a prickle. For the sake of simplicity, I’m referring to thorns as anything anatomically sharp on a plant that causes an expletive to bloom forth from your mouth.

Those anatomically sharp things can sometimes (hold your equisetum botanist, I said “sometimes”)  be a source of water conservation or shade provision. Bottom line, those imposing and uninviting thorns have a purpose borne out of defensive necessity.

It makes me think about my personal journey.

I’m not sure how pure my life started, but I did start as a tender shoot.

As I stretched my vines, I encountered intersections of beauty and adversity.  Setbacks, betrayals and heartaches created soul-scarring wounds. In response, I sprouted  emotional thorns to protect myself from emotional or psychological harm. And in the garden of life, I’m not the only thorny plant.

We’ve all come across bristling buds of biting blossoms.

We’ve been pricked by the thorns of others.

The sharp guardians shaped by their life’s circumstances.

Those thorns may look like cynicism, hostility, guardedness or emotional barriers, but they serve as shields against further pain.

Each thorn represents a wound, an experience or a loss that has shaped their perception of the garden, gardeners and animals around them.

Their thorns are a testament to the struggles they have endured and the wisdom they’ve gained from adversity.

Their thorns are part of the story of their journey.

Looking back at my own life’s landscape, I realize that tending to it involves maintaining a  constant awareness of, and fight against, an overgrowth of emotional thorns.

Those are the  penetrating weeds that hinder my personal potential and productive vulnerability.

Those are the vines that hold the power to harshly strangle authentic connection with those around me.

So when we run into others who come at us with thorns prickling, remember that the painful  plant spears you fight in the garden weren’t always there. That person, like the plant, once had a tender vulnerability beneath those piercing claws. Admittedly, for some it is deep within. And for others, it’s really deep.

Those thorns are defense mechanisms borne out of their experiences. Look at those thorny exteriors as remnants of battles fought and lessons learned.

We’re all products of our environments, navigating the thorny landscapes of our lives.

Just as you tend to your own garden, tend to your community garden with empathy, support, compassion, patience and understanding.

The thorns you encounter weren’t always there. That vine you’re fighting isn’t the only one causing pain with the very mechanism it developed to prevent its pain.

You have thorns. Others have thorns. We all have thorns. Be aware of their presence and know they are there for a reason.

The vines in your garden might appear harmless from a distance. It isn’t until you get up close and personal that you discover the thorns hiding under leaves or see the thorns only visible from different perspectives.

People you meet might also have a pleasant exterior, masking their harsh pains and struggles under the cover of societal expectations or fear of vulnerability.

When you approach a vine with piercingly projected thorns, you do so with caution (if at all).

That same caution, with a pinch of patience and a prick of empathy should be the way you approach the guarded person who bears a harsh exterior.

Bottom line, don’t judge a plant or a person by its thorns.

As I trowel off the sweat of hard-work and personal discovery, know that I dig you and think you’re a shear joy, weeds, thorns and all. That’s all the thyme I have for now.