How Invasives Help Us to Love Ourselves

 

It’s become a green wonderland here in the mountains. The basil is bunching out in the garden, weeding is now a daily activity, and last year’s daylilies are starting to bloom. But for all the plants that are welcomed, prized, and cultivated, there are an equal amount of herbs in that dreaded category of invasives.

Invasive species are, by definition, any plants that are not native and have a tendency to spread, outcompeting the indigenous flora. Because invasives thrive in places that have been disturbed, their tribe is seemingly everywhere. Though sometimes seen as noxious, these plants are often our most prized medicine in the herbal world (like nettles, burdock, and chickweed). For anyone who grew up eating honeysuckle or blowing dandelion seeds, these plants can be at the very center of our most precious memories. The only thing more pandemic than their reach, however, is the spread of our corresponding resentment.

Around this time of the year I start to see many anti-invasives campaigns popping up in my feed. Much of this work is grounded in incredible compassion for our native populations, but it seems no matter what community we live in, we are often fed more information about who to hate than who to love. In a time where immigration debates are so heated a part of me feels pain every time I hear the word “invasive”. The nuances of these two situations are, undoubtedly, different, but the vehemence is so similar it leads me to wonder — is our hatred of invasive plants, like the blind opposition to immigration, just another way our deeper knowing is asking us to take a look at our own selves (and the journey we’ve taken to get here)?

 

 

The truth is, in terms of invasive species, humans are undoubtedly at the top of this list. In light of the tenderness of this truth, is it possible that our hard tack line of dislike towards invasives is a mirror, meant to help us move towards greater self-acceptance? If we can put aside our tendency to judge these plants, could the recognition of the medicine these invasives carry help us see the medicine that we too have to give to this world?

I live next to a beautiful spring-fed creek that is slowly being covered by Japanese knotweed. In April they shoot up like alien asparagus and by May the entire top half of the creek is hidden in green. Japanese knotweed is one of the most vigorous invasives in the country. They say it takes seven years of continuously cutting back the stalks before the root will die. (At the time of writing this I am on year two, I will get back to you in 2022 with the results). It’s easy, when I’m ankle deep in the creek fighting a seemingly losing battle, to feel discouraged and resentful. Sometimes I find myself slipping into anger: Who are you to be growing here? And then I remember something life-altering. Something I can’t believe I forgot.

Japanese knotweed once saved my life. When I was in the midst of dealing with Lyme disease the roots of this plant were integral in helping me to heal. As one of the few plants that has anti-spirochete actions (spirochetes being the ancient form of bacteria that is responsible for causing Lyme disease) I have seen this plant, the same one I curse and begrudge and skin my knees to clear from the creek, help countless people recover from the depths of this debilitating disease.  Sometimes I am shocked by the force of my gratitude when I finally make that connection. And that gratitude helps me to see that the power of my dislike is an often a direct reflection of my complicated relationship with my own self.

 

 

If we simply shift the wording around, it’s easy to see how the story we create around invasives is the same story we are telling ourselves about our own essential being.

Whether this is the story of our heritage, often tipped with shame if we are of settler descent, or the story we believe about the inherent fallibility of the human race. (Humans are, after all, the reason why most invasive species have entered into nonnative habitats in the first place). But, perhaps most profound of all, our reaction to invasives can help us to love what is hardest to uproot in our own psyches.

At our heart, all of us are confident, harmonious, connected, and aware of our essential goodness. But throughout our lifetimes we inevitably develop invasive thought patterns (thoughts that weren’t even our own to begin with) that start to affect our native ecology of self-esteem. How many of us are plagued by the belief that we aren’t enough? Or maybe that we are too much? Just as invasive species typically only move into ecologies that have been disturbed, these self-defeating thoughts usually arrive in the wake of trauma. Like blackberry vines, these thoughts originally come in to protect us from further damage, keeping us safe as we regenerate from the hurt. As restrictive as these thoughts become, however, if we can only lean in, these interlopers have so much to teach us about grace.

 

 

There is an old Daoist saying that acceptance leads to gratitude, and gratitude leads to grace. It’s easy, when I’m ankle deep in the creek cutting back knotweed, to feel resentful. But inevitably, I begin to enter into a Zen-like zone of concentration. Bend, clip, swish. I stop fighting the fact that the knotweed is here, and I accept what is, including my role as someone who can help the native plants return. Bend, clip, swish I accept myself as someone who is also a non-native to this land, and yet cares so deeply for this place. Bend, clip, swish. I recognize that all the ways that I tell myself I’m not enough is just another reaction to the challenges I’ve been handed.

Bend, clip, swish. The gratitude begins to settle in. For the tenacity of this plant. For the jam I will be making from its stalks and medicine I’ll bottle from the roots. Gratitude for the ability to stay present with myself as I grow, for my willingness to continually show up with my pruners when my own negative thought patterns crop up again and again.

Bend, clip, swish. Somewhere within all this motion the resistance finally drops away. And, like a shaft of light reaching through the new space I’ve opened up in the canopy, sweet grace comes streaming in.

Grace, that sense of elegant goodwill and natural divine alignment, is often just around the creek bend if we can learn to become present with what is. So, if you needed to hear this today, let this grace come streaming into your world. Because, it turns out, that no matter who you are or where you come from, you can always belong to this place called the present.

 

 

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