The Itch

A few weekends ago I decided to be overly ambitious and weed and mulch all my flower beds. I had big goals and good intentions, and my industrious nature took hold. I was so focused, so intent on my tasks at hand, that I payed little attention to anything else around me.

It was like I was wearing blinders, unable to really see what was right in front of me. There's that saying, "leaves of three, let it be...." which never even came to mind. Seeing that vine with it's three individual little leaves of poison didn't even trigger the memory of that saying, not until it was far too late.

It began as an itch, just under the skin, so slight at first that I barely noticed it, or at least managed to ignore it. Before long, I noticed a small bump, a miniature blister here, there, all up along my forearms, as if I had crawled in it. I decided to ignore it, to convince myself it didn't itch at all. If I didn't give in to it, it didn't exist, right?

 I'd be lying if I said that my super powerful mind managed to overcome and subdue my festering itch, because it didn't. Eventually, at the end of my rope, I gave in, and began scratching and digging my fingernails into it as if I were trying to rip my flesh off. I knew better than to think that scratching it would make it go away, but I did it regardless. It felt so good! But, with most things, that good feeling of relief was temporary and soon gave way to something worse, the increased itching that comes with it's spread.

There are situations in life that are one and the same. They are always there beneath the surface, just waiting to irritate you enough to make you scratch, to make you acknowledge their presence. You can ignore them for as long as you want, but eventually that itch will start, slowly at first, then eventually crescendo to a dull roar, at which point you give in and begin to scratch. Sometimes the scratching feels good, but more often than not, it just makes things worse.

I don't always say much, unless I really feel compelled to, usually if I feel passionately about something, or feel that the need to speak up far outweighs the risk of being quiet. Like the itch, I can usually ignore it for some time, before it eventually gets the best of me. I reach a breaking point, where I can't be quiet any longer, and when I have to speak my mind. Sometimes ignoring the pain, heartache,  and frustration with something only festers into something that eventually once unleashed, we cannot control. It's a gamble really, trying to decide whether or not something is worth acknowledging, worth scratching. Are the resulting scars worth it? Is ignoring it saying more about me as a person, than if I face it head on?

I happen to feel that it's always important to be honest, to be true to who you are. If you can't do that, then who are you really? If the poison ivy vines of the world seem as though they're constantly getting to you, then sometimes you just have to acknowledge them ("leaves of three, let them be"), tell them "I know what you are, and you can't infect me with your nasty, festering, blistering rash" and then either dig it out of your beautiful garden, or choose to weed around it, always knowing it's there, but never getting close to it, never letting it's itch consume you.

More often than not, it's better to avoid the weeds and ignore the painful rash that comes with it, but quite honestly, I feel I'd rather fight back against the weeds, against the poison ivy vines and rid my life of them altogether. My flowers bloom brighter and my garden grows more beautiful in their absence. Or does it? After all, maybe the only reason I can appreciate the beauty of the flowers, is because of the wrath of the weeds. Ultimately, it's knowing who I am that determines my reaction and the power I give to the weeds and their presence in my garden. Today I will leave them alone, contained in their current location, preventing them from spreading and gaining power. Tomorrow however, is another day.