The Carolinian Trail

November 8, 2000

First published on the now-defunct website, Themestream, as an essay, "Milkweed and patience."

Years ago someone gave one of my parents a beautiful resin paperweight in which a milkweed pod lay suspended, partly opened, with a few of the scaly seeds pulling away to drift with angel umbrellas spread, through imaginary air. I always wondered how the craftsperson made it, and how he had the patience to slowly cover this delicate object so it looks that natural.

Walking through the park I wondered where all the milkweed has gone. This is the time of year for finding ripe pods and peeling them open. But the city's naturalization areas are mysteriously devoid of this weed. It is considered a noxious invader here. So who had the patience to wade through asters and goldenrod, digging out those persistent milkweed roots, and why was it worth their time?

Finally I spotted a small gathering of their conspicuous, white-flashed stalks. I wanted to bring some home as a gift for my small, street-bound apartment. But I refrained, knowing those lovely seeds would inevitably escape and clutter the corners of all my rooms.

This reminded me of the transience of nature. We can't really suspend beauty for eternity, unless perhaps in clear resin. But even that will someday break down, crack or get sawed apart by paleontologists of some future species and geological period, studying the bizarre and elegant milkweed pod just as we extract DNA from insects in amber.

We try so hard to keep things as they are, seeking job security, hoarding the products of our labour, expending it on permanent dwellings and impermanent toys. But the things that really matter–life, love, beauty, the human spirit itself–all change and corrode; or at least mutate into some new form. The things we strive for can't take away the pain of inevitable loss, or the periodic confusion and conflict inherent to our existence. Even our beautiful gardens will eventually give way to patches of milkweed.

How do we face this? Again nature returns us to that difficult practice of patience. It is no good to respond to the world's–or people's–impermanence with anything but consideration. Patience does not try to tamper with the rules of the universe or of human nature, except by looking inward first. It teaches the soul to accept and perhaps thrive on change. Those who are strongest find joy and wisdom in the adventure.