Out of Place

Everything has its own special place…or does it? Depends on perspective.

This is a picture of a common weed. It’s defined as a weed because Webster says it’s a plant that grows where it shouldn’t. Tell that to the plant. It will dispute it to your face. 

It’s actually a dandelion growing up from a crevice in the stone patio. It’s thriving, healthy and from empirical observation satisfied with where life has put it. After all, it had no choice. Is it out of place? It would seem so, but who’s to say? 

Our entire front yard is a magnificent eco-friendly garden. It’s a continuing work in progress, designed and maintained by our daughter, Leslie, an artist, who’s equally talented on canvas as well as in dirt. Creativity cannot be stifled. 

To an untrained eye, it appears to be a hodge-podge assembly of weeds during the winter. It’s actually what she terms a ‘self-sustainable garden.’ 

She created it to add support to the fragile ecosystem of the island’s birds, animals, bees, insects and butterflies by use of the perennial indigenous species of plants, some even labeled weeds. It would seem out of place if compared with the cultivated but sterile flowering gardens.  But is it? 

For most of the year the native grasses sway playfully with the wind. Bees and tiny insects ride upon the flowered tips of the grasses like miniature rodeo cowboys. The garden in its prime is in perfect harmony with nature, its dichotomous appearance notwithstanding. 

Soon the perennial flowers will emerge with the resurrected herbs. And shortly what’s left of the huge mustard greens and lettuces (ignored by the rabbits but not me!) will have to wait for another winter to roll around. 

It’s hard to deny the fact there is a perfect place for most things, natural or created. It’s mainly how we see it. Truth is, we can’t accurately define a ‘proper place’ for balanced equilibrium. We just intuit it or feel it when we see it. 

Unfortunately, there are those living among us with their own ideas of efficiency, utility and synchronicity. Their sanity teeters on the edge of madness unless everything fits together in a nice, neat package. These souls suffer from extreme cases of OCD. Many are politicians.

To keep their seams from ripping apart, they rely on Feng shui, an invisible energy force that supposedly adjusts all things into harmonious balance. It’s sort of a nirvana for the nerves. It works best with deep breathing and green tea. Or a stiff gin and tonic. 

But sadly, we have to leave this esoteric world behind and try to make some sense of the everyday details life doles out. Things like arranging the bookshelves where Hemmingway doesn’t complain being cheek to cheek with Faulkner, or Shakespeare condescending to share space with Tennessee Williams. It’s difficult to please the hard-core OCD crowd, especially the deceased. 

But I’ve found in spite of my best efforts it’s possible to be out of place in many places. Even in church.

Some years ago, I found myself in my hometown Methodist church, sitting alone in the vacant pew, first row, front left. Here’s what happened: 

After the preaching, two elderly, stern-faced ladies cornered me. One said with saintly authority, “You were out of place, young man.” 

A muffled “Huh?” was about all I could muster. 

“We recognized you. Your place was always in the back, last row right, not the front row left.” 

“Uh, is God keeping score these days?” I asked meekly. “I thought there is joy in heaven over even one sinner who repents, no matter where they sit.” 

The last words I heard as they walked away sounded something like ‘prodigal’ and ‘backsliding.’ I was left to ponder the mistaken placement. 

Now listen, when age creeps in, the thought of being out of place is no laughing matter. Repentance isn’t possible if we’re not breathing. It puts things into perspective. 

Maybe we’re just part of some enormous Jackson Pollack canvas, bit players in a Shakespearean tragedy, or part of a random montage symbolizing something that resembles a gigantic accident of nature. 

We might even conclude we’ve been intruders in the wrong world, out of place all along. Who’s the final Arbiter on this? A scary thought. 

* * *

I think of the dandelion. It’s a survivor, maybe out of place, but growing where it’s planted nonetheless. No nurture needed and no complaints.

Here’s to the weed in us all. Hang in there wherever you are planted. And keep blooming.

 

 Bud Hearn

March 1, 2021