My stepfather, Alan, used to say, “Just pull the ones that are waving at you.” His implication being the taller weeds in a flower bed, as the flatter, less noticeable ones could be handled with spraying. Alan, a landscaper for almost 50 years, understood the humility in pulling weeds, as do I, today.

Right now, this time of year, we are in the throes of unwanted vegetation in our flower beds. Hot, humid days combined with pop-up rain showers provide the perfect conditions for weed growth.

I remember when I was a teenager weeding flower beds was a task assigned to me at my parents’ landscaping business on Saturdays. I despised it. Not only did I hate the tedious, unforgiving act of pulling a weed, but I was mortified of what others might think seeing me on the ground in a flower bed. I could only imagine their judgment.

I thought I was better than that, but why? Why did I put so much value in other people’s opinions, let alone my own? Who was I to dictate the hierarchy of honest work?

Today, a landscaper myself, I have a different mindset about pulling weeds. I find it to be meditative and rewarding. I actually try to make a habit of doing bed work at one of my accounts each week. I believe it conveys that no task is beneath anyone’s position.

Recently while on my hands and knees in a bed of azaleas I thought of how each of my children might approach pulling weeds. Our oldest son, Colton, would quickly enlist the help of a friend and make one man’s job easier by turning two hands into four. Our middle child, Reagan, would treat it as a competition: girl versus weeds, and wouldn’t stop until she delivered defeat. Lastly, our youngest son, Landon, would ask how much he was being paid for said work. If, for example, it were $20 an hour, he would sub out the work to a friend at $10 an hour and keep the difference for himself. Hopefully none of them would think themselves better than such a task, as I did when I was young.

The past couple of months I’ve fervently been working at being a better person. If there’s literature on the subject then I’ve read it. Among the content, I’ve found one central theme: “not caring.” It’s counterintuitive, but not caring seemingly leads to caring about what “should matter.”

I recall being at Books-A-Million several years ago with my wife. Then a different version of myself, I picked up a hardback called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a ‘Expletive’.” It piqued my curiosity, but still I placed it back on the shelf in exchange for “The Art of War,” likely because then I viewed the world through defense mode.

After my purchase I made my way to the car to open my new book and read a few passages. Before I even made it to the first page I noticed the corners of the cover were slightly damaged.

If you know me, you know that imperfections haunt me. Thankfully my wife knows my quirks and was kind enough to go inside and exchange the book for an undamaged copy while I waited in the car as any mature adult would do; perish the thought that I subject myself to the judgment of the cashier, a complete stranger.

Since that purchase I’ve found that “The Art of War” was not as helpful as I thought, particularly since the only war I tend to wage is with myself.

So, I recently ordered a copy of the original book I intended to buy, “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a ‘Expletive’,” which just happened to be delivered last week. I couldn’t wait to read it, but as soon as I cracked open the cover the pages ripped from the binding with a tearing sound, leaving it damaged. I laughed and looked at my wife, who sardonically said, “Do you give a ‘expletive’ that that just happened?” I smiled while dying a little on the inside and handed her the book. A day later a new copy was delivered and the damaged one returned by mail.

So far I’m only three chapters in, but I’m a quick study.

A good life, like pulling weeds, takes practice and humility. We can’t just phone it in and expect satisfactory results. We literally have to work at it. Life is a verb; it’s an action, and it requires upkeep.

It’s hard learning not to care while refraining from indifference; they aren’t the same. Ideally through patience and modest discernment my “cares” will find their rightful home. After all, the only difference between a flower and a weed is judgment.

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].

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