Good Grief 195

Someone was watching me weeding vigorously this morning.
It was warm, I went at it with rather a lot of vigour, some might say, anger. If you zoomed in you would have seen tears. I'm not really sure what it was about. More grief I think. Who knows.
Anger can be useful for its energy. As I, rather brutally, laid into the poor weeds with the hoe, I wondered if this is what it takes to destroy another. They have a place in the world but I have decided 'not here' with an embedded paternal and cultural command to cut out the untidy and the 'not fitting our vision of what "should" be here'. And then anger gets to find a purpose and a direction. It looked better, I was exhausted and felt I had had some efficacy in the world, albeit briefly and, ultimately, pointlessly.
At least I didn't use weed killer.
Do we need brutality for order, or is there another way?
Our thing with gardens is about control, even when we are trying to work with nature.
I suspect, in the end, it is all about relationship.
I looked at the pile of dead weeds and apologised. It wouldn't have stood up in a war crimes tribunal.
My existence is meaningless enough without murdering weeds that are probably living more meaningfully than Iam.
But therein lies part of the problem. Falling into that trap of the idea of a meaningful existence.
I'm writing this the day after, listening to the wind and the church bell over the road announcing the Sunday service.
Yesterday I looked into the eyes of a woman who's husband died at roughly the same age for her as mine did. I knew something of the look and am not sure I can face it.
Right, today, i might go to the island...I cant remember when I was last there.