Weeds vs. Volunteers

There's an old argument I sometimes have with my dearest gardener friend (who just had a birthday) about the difference between a weed and a volunteer. Prosaic wisdom says that there is no discernable difference in the plant itself, but that a volunteer is a weed you want, and a weed is a volunteer you don't. In other words, the difference between a weed and a volunteer is you.

I think it gets a little more complicated, and lest I lose you, dear reader, let me assure you that I DO mean this as a metaphor for people and social situations. Everything's a metaphor.

A volunteer becomes a weed when it requires more effort than it's worth (to you) to contain or remove, or when it threatens your other plants. A weed is not usually merely a single flower growing spontaneously, but an army of some invasive species. Dandelions, for instance, are attractive, useful, and edible, but very few people appreciate these things about them when they take over your yard (which they will, without provocation). Bindweed buds can be lovely, but the vines strangle other plants and are nearly impossible to remove. We grow mint intentionally, but when it escapes its planter, it's definitely a weed.

A volunteer can be a pleasant surprise: something you didn't expect, but suddenly wish to cultivate, even if you didn't plan for it. Every spring, bulbs you didn't know had been planted suddenly shoot amazingly colorful blooms through the snow. Even if they appear in your lawn, you're more likely to carefully transplant them than throw them away. They're too pretty.

Maybe. . . maybe friendships are volunteers because they're individual relationships that require attention but are yet lush and rewarding, but responsibilities are weeds because they take and take and take and give little back. The difference isn't necessarily in the object, but in the nature of the relationship.

I meant "necessarily." There ARE people who, by habit, cultural training, or nature, use others or treat them like responsibilities rather than friends. There are even people who are inclined to toxicity, just as some plants are poisonous in small or large amounts. That doesn't mean they are universally so, or even that they are weeds, just that they are less likely to be courted for your garden. Oleander is poisonous, but it's a good windblock, and the flowers are lovely. My aging neighbors used to grow it because they didn't worry about the danger to children. My roommate and I grow several kinds of shrubs that are poisonous to cats. Not intentionally: we both like cats, but she's allergic, they bother our chickens, and the plants are pretty.

And so to the human metaphor: This week I am looking at saying goodbye to a job that has meant a lot to me, and starting a new one with a terrible reputation in my field. I am in the early stages of some new relationships and the comforting stages of some long-established friendships. And I need to be, and to know that I am, a volunteer and not a weed. I need to know this, because I need to be smart enough to recognize when I am being treated like a weed, and to defy or abandon those situations that would try to convince me that I am just a weed.

I am a volunteer. I'm here, and ready to work and be both productive and beautiful. But if I am neglected or not wanted, I won't stay. This I promise myself: I will not stay. I will not let myself become a weed.