The Sin

Picture Credits: Amaterasu on Pinterest

The smell of pesticides and fertilizers greeted my nose as I stepped out into the sunlit garden. The glass door behind me slid shut, the sunlight making its white panelling seem brighter than it actually was. My feet trotted the oak floor of the back porch, the flowy cloth of my maxi whispering against the steps as I descended them and officially entered the garden—a refuge and haven.

The pastel pink floral pattern that adorned my maxi contrasted with the deep green of the lush grass at my feet. Grass blades tickled my feet, even through the socks I was wearing—I didn't have garden shoes, and I didn't want to get my feet dirty by trudging through my garden, barefoot. The manicured trees surrounding my garden towered over the burst of flowers that were the hallmark of this botanical masterpiece. Hot pink and dark purple petunias, adorable forget-me-nots, pastel carnations and poppies, lilies of the valley, and roses of all sorts of colors formed an exotic flowerbed that colored me peaceful as soon as my eyes landed on them, the sight of pink cassia petals gracefully showering them just added to the feeling of wanting to get lost in the floral scents, the feel of petals gently brushing my skin, and the birdsong of the doves loved to visit. I spotted a caterpillar spinning itself a silvery cocoon in a bush. I frowned. Bugs. I hated them. They were so icky, and I just—I couldn't go near them. They freaked me out. Sighing, I turned my attention to my beautiful flowers. I could deal with the bugs later.

As water splashed onto leaves and I carefully avoided the sloppy mud, I reached a corner of the garden covered in the shadow of an oak tree. I watered the flowers there, only to notice...weeds?

Weeds. Growing in my garden. Unacceptable.

Sighing, I crouched in the darkness of the oak tree's shade, firmly gripping the stems of the miserable bundle of weeds clustered together and pulled.

It won't get out. 
I'll water the rest of the flowers, then exterminate this nuisance later.

As the opalite sky faded into a blend of pink and orange hues, I looked around at my freshly pampered garden. It looked beautiful. It was time for me to go back inside—I couldn't stay long after dark—but I had one last thing to do.

I crouched in the increasing darkness of the oak tree's shade for the second time that day—and yet, I was unable to pull out the nefarious weeds.

I'll do this tomorrow.

But tomorrow turned into weeks. Then months. Each day, I would look at my garden with he utmost pride, only to be downcast by the sight of the weeds. I'd take care of my flowers first, and never had enough time to get rid of the weeds. I eventually decided on a shortcut—covering the weeds with a picnic blanket. The sight of my garden was restored to its beauty—I just had to make sure I never lifted the picnic blanket again.

But one day, I entered my garden again, a perfunctory practice to relieve myself of the monotony of my house, only to find that the weeds had spread.

I stood shocked at the foot of the porch stairs. Dread fisted my heart as I took in the sight of my beautiful flowers being spoiled by the presence of those stupid weeds.

Tears threatened to escape my eyes as I rushed over to the weeds.

They can't be here. My hard work can't be for nothing. Why didn't I take care of this sooner?

A strangled sob burst from my throat—sudden and unexpected. I dabbed furiously at my eyes as I continued my futile efforts to pull the weeds out.

As the days went by, the weeds spread. I tried my best to pull them out, but it never worked, and my beautiful flowers were suffering. Every time I walked into my garden now, I was filled with anxiety and angst—yet, I still went there every day because it was familiar and mine. I used to visit it because it felt safe and alive. But now, it felt like the opposite.

Dying.

My flowers wilted. The birds stopped visiting. The shadows looked like they'd swallow me whole.

But one day, as I looked at my dying garden, it finally hit me:
The sin wasn't letting the weeds live.
The sin was wanting to kill them.
And not wanting them to be a part of my garden's beauty.

So that day, I worked hard. I properly watered my flowers—I even watered the weeds. I let myself enjoy the chaotic beauty of nature instead of the manicured version of it I had artificially created. Dusk faded to night. I realized too late I'd stayed out past dark—but as soon as I got up, my clothes smeared with dirt, I found myself speechless.

Fireflies rose and formed tiny, glowing orbs of light in my garden. It was then that I realized there was nothing about the dark to be afraid of—it was as beautiful as the day. I felt the moonlight's encouraging touch on my back as I headed back in after a few hours, intending to see the garden at night tomorrow, too.

As time passed, the caterpillars I had planned on getting rid of became butterflies, the fireflies became my friends, my flowers bloomed better than ever, the weeds added to the beauty, and my garden became a safe haven again.

And when I walked into my garden one day and saw that what I had taken for weeds had borne flowers—I realized they were just dandelions. Delicate dandelions that required love, not hate.