Define a Weed for Me, Please

“Define a weed for me, please.”

That is all I want to say to some of my neighbors here on “the ranch,” a subdivision of about 200 lots where, every year, the roadside becomes a battlefield.

The fight is supposedly against noxious weeds. But from where I stand, it looks a lot more like a war against anything rooted, living, useful, medicinal, or holding the road together.

The board hires a licensed applicator to spray a chemical cocktail along the roadsides. They are quick to reassure everyone, “But it’s not glyphosate,” as though that single fact makes the rest of the biocide harmless. Meanwhile, the roads are eroding away, the ditches are being stripped of root structure, and the very plants holding the soil in place are being treated like enemies.

I must have purchased the largest thistle patch on the Ranch.

My patch of Prickly Friends this morning

Thistle, by the way, is the one “noxious weed” that made the state list and gives the board its legal and moral confidence to spray. Never mind that the best management practice from the state authorities is often to mow the sides of the road and allow the roots to stabilize the soil. Never mind that this HOA actually owns a mower that could do the job. Somehow, spraying poison still seems like the better approach to them.

And they are not just taking out the thistle.

They are making sure every living, rooted thing along the roadside gets targeted too.

We are allowed to put up signs at our property lines that say “No Spray.” Last year, I made signs for myself and three of my neighbors. Despite my best attempt, the applicator “didn’t see” my signs and sprayed the three-quarter mile stretch of road that wraps around my property.

You can bet I was on-site this year.

I had to run him off and explain exactly which of my neighbors were opting out. It felt less like property management and more like standing guard in a chemical war zone.

This one issue has probably been the only real complaint I can think of in my life lately. I love this land. I love the rawness of it. I love watching what grows here. But the annual roadside spray campaign feels like a ritualized misunderstanding of nature.

Last year, my friend Masjid arrived from Guatemala. As soon as he saw all the thistle on my property, he lit up.

“THISTLE!”

He immediately called his mom to tell her about the abundant medicinal plant growing on my land. Then he made himself a cup of tea and started rattling off the benefits.

To him, it was not a problem.

It was medicine.

Just about ready to blossom into a field of purple

I had to laugh because I have personally spent a small fortune buying thistle flowers at the flower market in Los Angeles over the years when staging projects and events. Had no one told me this plant was a problem, I would have been as happy as Masjid.

Since living with my new patch of prickly friends, I have learned more about their purpose in nature. And God does not make mistakes.

Thistle grows where soil has been disturbed or over-compacted. Roadsides, construction scars, overworked ground, places where the earth has been injured. The previous owner of my property did some extra backhoe work, which created the perfect conditions for thistle to thrive.

But the thistle is not the problem.

The thistle is the response.

She sends down strong roots to break up compacted soil. She protects exposed earth. She prepares the ground so that, eventually, more delicate plants can return. Native prairie grasses, wildflowers, softer-rooted species — they all need a healed soil structure before they can thrive.

So while some people see a weed patch, I see a land-healing crew.

Personally, I rejoice in my thistle patch. Every morning, I get exercise with my machete, chopping and dropping the plants in place. The thistle becomes compost right where it grew. The roots remain to hold and open the soil. The chopped leaves and stalks feed the ground.

It is the most beautiful compost system.

It is also an excellent workout and stress relief — not that I have much stress, other than this whole biowar going on around me.

I have a feeling that by next year, the area I have been chopping and dropping will be some of the best garden soil on the property.

And then there is the medicine of it all.

Thistle is traditionally known as medicine for the liver. The liver, in many healing traditions, is associated with anger. I find that poetic.

Because honestly, I want to tell my neighbors to go have a cup of thistle tea.

Maybe it would cool the anger.

Maybe it would soften the war impulse.

Maybe it would remind them that the earth is not something to dominate into submission.

A weed is not simply a plant we do not like.

Sometimes a “weed” is a messenger. Sometimes it is medicine. Sometimes it is erosion control. Sometimes it is a repair mechanism. Sometimes it is the first responder after humans have disturbed the land.

So before we spray, poison, flatten, and kill every last thing growing on the roadside, maybe we should ask a better question.

Not “How do we get rid of this?”

But:

“What is this plant here to heal?”

Perhaps the thistle was never the real issue. Perhaps the HOA simply wasn’t emotionally prepared for a woman in a tipi with a machete and a land ethic.