Weeds
By Molly-Ann Leikin

       A few weeks ago, I left word on my faithful gardener’s voicemail, asking him to please remove some nasty-looking weeds that popped up overnight in the meditation garden that surrounds my office.  Juan is usually meticulous about pulling unwanted stuff, and his not doing so surprised me.   

      After leaving him the message, I drove off to see Dr. Johnny, my Rolfer, the latest in a series of practitioners I’ve visited in the hope of healing my back.  (For those of you who’ve never been Rolfed, let’s just say it’s a very deep manipulation that makes a head-on collision feel like fun).

      When I got home from Dr. Johnny, the weeds were still here. 

     Oh???

     My body was too bruised and sore to discuss anything except immediate death, especially in Spanish, so I went right to bed with a selection of those cute blue ice bags.  Meanwhile, my weeds were growing like Jack and the Beanstalk on speed.

     The following week, I left a note for Juan reminding him to pull the nasty intruders from my garden.  They’d grown about a foot in seven days.  But that afternoon, when I came back home from Rolfing, more bruised than ever, and weepy to boot, the weeds still hadn’t been pulled. 
           
     Swell.

     Same thing the next week, even though I left Juan a note on my good stationery, with a plate of brownies, made from scratch.

     “Juan,” I tried not to scream into the phone, “there are enormous weeds in the side garden and you keep not pulling them.”

     “You don’ got no weeds.”

     “I’m looking right at them!!!”

     “Mrs. Molly, you got tomatoes.”

     Jesus.  I’m a farmer. 

     Over the next few weeks, as the Rolfing wounds healed in time for the next session and the next, in the garden, yellow flowers appeared on my tomato plants, and those blossoms became little round, green clusters that soon turned orange, then red.  At that point, I nervously picked one of what Rachael Ray calls cherry tomatoes, popped that baby in a salad and let me tell you, I was born for agri-business. 

     Dr. Johnny, who loves my veggies as much as my low back, tells me the tomato “volunteered” to grow in my garden.  Apparently, seeds of all plants and trees do that.  They float on the wind until they find a place they want to lay down roots, and just plain stay there.   Maybe it was the Universe delivering a little miracle to help me through the Rolfing for the next several months.  Or maybe the whole thing was a metaphor for looking the other way and letting something unexpected happen.  Like you call BMG, you call BMG, you call BMG, you call BMG, and then CNN shows up, with lilacs.         

     Whatever the case, every morning now after meditation, yoga and Rolfer-insisted gluten-free bread that makes cement taste like a chocolate soufflé, I prepare Ziploc bags of perfect cherry tomatoes to leave on the doorsteps of my friends, who SWEAR I’m not in danger of becoming one of those plump garden ladies with white Dutch boy hair-do’s who have a tendency to wear clogs and unfortunate sweat shirts with dancing adorable sequined kittens on them. 

     Meanwhile, the tomatoes happened when I wasn’t looking.  They were nowhere in my consciousness.  I was totally focused on pitching my songs and my clients’ songs and healing my back. 

     The elation I get from my unexpected gift has created a whole new positive aura around here.  Whatever the reason, my creativity is sizzling. 

     No doubt, you’ll have your miracles, too.  If any of them turns out to be endive or radicchio, come on by for a salad.

© 2007 Molly-Ann Leikin
  

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