Day 2: Lessons In Weeding
A pop-up newsletter + photo diary penned from a farm in Ireland, running daily.
In case you missed it yesterday, I’m running a pop-up newsletter from a farm in Ireland for the next week or so. Read along with your morning coffee, if you so please. We’ll be back to regularly scheduled programming in September,
What happens to the mind (and hands) after five hours weeding?
I woke with a question: Does one wear makeup to complete farm work? What about the hair, up or down? In Costa Rica, I hardly considered makeup on a normal day, but Ireland has been different. I feel the urge to lengthen my lashes, rouge my cheeks, conceal my tiredness each time I leave the house, but doing so to prepare for a five-hour working shift seems frivolous. I am not staunchly against frivolity, and so I decide to fill in my brows, curl my lashes, and dab a bit of concealer beneath my eyes. I wear leggings (a bad choice) and a long-sleeved, sun-resistant shirt (a good choice).
Breakfast and lunch, I am told, are on my own. I am to eat whatever I can find. My shift begins at 9am, so at 8:15am I poke around the kitchen. I want to try to make eggs, but there is an AGA range and I do not know how it works (I later learn that currently, it doesn't). I decide on muesli, but I only find cow’s milk. I pray for my skin and my stomach. I am returning once again to my roots—the Irish, whether in America or Ireland, are lovers of cow’s milk, through and through. My parents still drink a tall, cold glass of it with dinner. I shudder at the thought.
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I was instructed to bring my AirPods and phone out to the garden. I could listen to music, a podcast, an audiobook, but I want to try my first day without the noise, ears to the world.
My first task is to weed a large, mixed flower bed. I am given gloves, which I wear for about three minutes before deciding they are too hot. My fingers get a better grip on the weeds, anyway. I’ve weeded before—it was my father’s punishment of choice—but never in a garden of this size and caliber. I find myself shy, uncertain. What is technically a weed and what isn’t? This is my chief thought for the first ten minutes of the task. I am on my knees or crouched down, bent over, hunched over, ripping out handfuls of earth with my bare hands.
It doesn’t take long for the spiral to start.
I am weeding, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about the changing landscape of media, how so many Substack newsletters and not-hot-take hot takes are saying media organizations want their writers to also be camera-facing, i.e., influencer adjacent. This stresses me out. And the tariffs, what will happen to the US? Is it a bad time to return to America? Then I move onto my recent ex, replaying conversations, the breakup, the decisions I made with confidence whose assuredness begins to falter around hour 1.5 of kneeling in the flowerbed.
I think of AI, of an old job I had as a receptionist at a children’s museum in college, of my boss at that job, of a childhood best friend, of our most recent, unexpected phone call, of potential scenarios for how the next months might play out, of the things I should have written by now, of the pitches I need to work on when I get back, of my upcoming course work, of the course work I’ve fallen behind on during my vacation, of my budget, which hasn’t been updated all month, of dating in New York, of the guy I once met at a dog park who disappointed me by researching me on the internet before our first date and revealing his findings within the first hour of dinner, of my aging parents, of my parents dying.
Right around that point, the alarm bells ring. That's enough, Meghan, you can stop now.
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I am told to break for lunch whenever I'd like, but I decide I don't need lunch now. I'm in the zone, I'll work straight through. At this point, I’m a few hours in, towering piles of discarded weeds surround me, and my back has gone delightfully numb. I’ve become far more confident, ripping whatever my fingers grasp with zeal. My leggings are constantly getting caught by various plants, and my hands are jabbed with a plant’s needle. A few times, I wrap my hand full around a spiky stalk, shouting obscenities I hope no one hears.
The dirt beneath and around my fingernails is alarming. I’ve broken two nails. This is a tragedy, and also maybe a sign. I’ve become rather vain about my nails in recent weeks. I used to chomp them down to bits, cuticles wrecked, a sore sight, and now I’ve learned to let them grow properly. The magic of a file, of the occasional polish-free manicure for shaping.
I’ve spent an excess of time looking at my nails during this trip. I’ve placed my hands strategically on the table, hoping the woman next to me at dinner notices the beautiful, crescent-shaped nails, how spotless they are. I feel proud each time I get a look at them.
It’s only fitting that this vanity would reach some sort of biblical breaking point. For now, my nails are a decrepit shadow of their former selves.
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I find there is poetry in weeding, life lessons waiting quietly amongst the creeping thistle, chickweed, crouch grass. Look for meaning and you’ll find it everywhere. Some weeds are easy to spot, easy to pull. These are clearly weeds; they must go. Some are more subtle. They grow so near to the root of the flower that one might mistake them for the same kind. They are cleverly disguised as such, and probably, beneath the surface of the packed dirt, they are attempting to entangle their roots with the flower’s, to suck her energy right up, to make it impossible not to kill them without killing her, too.
There are weeds that look harmless on the surface. You think you’ll be able to pull them out easily, only to discover their roots run far deeper than you might expect. You yank, sweating, straining, unearthing a problem that might become catastrophic if not handled swiftly. You must starve the root. Some spread in creeping systems. They’re small and easy to pull, but let your eyes rest on the untended garden bed for a moment and spot them everywhere. Removing them takes time and patience. When you think you’re done, another batch will appear as if out of nowhere.
Then there are those weeds that look towering, nearly as tall as your chest if you’re 5’2, and the day has been long. Your hands are raw; you wonder how you’ll manage to get this monster out. You considering leaving it for tomorrow. Instead, you pull low and, surprise, the human-sized weed tower pops right now. Easy. Sometimes, things are.
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The best way to approach a garden full of weeds, a head-spinning amount of weeds, is section by section, little by little. You’re on your knees, back straining, neck straining, hands aching from the constant grip. You glance up and it seems like you’ve done nothing. After a while, when you stop thinking and surrender to the task, you stand up to stretch your back and notice that actually, you’ve cleared an entire section. Now the lines of flowers are visible. It’s increasingly obvious what should be there and what should not. You can fine-tune.
You are tending to your garden. There is no getting around this task. It is never really finished.
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I have a few hours before dinnertime. I am exhausted. I scrub my hands with gardeners' soap over and over, but the dirt stubbornly clings beneath my nails. I take my nail cleaner and try to dislodge the soil, but it’s no use. I succumb to having gardener’s hands for the time being, say a silent goodbye to my admirable hands.
I do a bit of computer work, visit the horses and feed them three apples each. I can’t tell if three is too many apples, but the horses are so large and the apple trees are excessively fruiting. I am not that Olive, my favorite of the bunch, is competing in the National Championships next weekend. I give her an extra apple as a treat for her hard work.
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Before dinner, I arrive in the kitchen to trays of just-picked plums. We look up a recipe for plum juice—pit the plums, add sugar and fresh-squeezed lemon juice, then boil. I find myself less fearful of sugar here. It feels less insidious when sprinkled onto freshly picked fruit or added to homemade juice. At least it isn’t disguising itself. It’s just there, dumped into the pot. Easy to spot.
I learn about granny, 90-years-old, who just completed her BA in English Literature. At the start of the four years, she couldn’t type—now, she’s got her degree. I laughed in delight, recalling all those times I felt “too old” for something in my late 20s, and now in my early 30s. I decide that granny will be my inspiration. Never again will I an age-related fear hold me back.
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For dinner, we have roast duck, a sauce made with the just-harvested plums, and potatoes from the garden. Red wine once again, all delicious. After dinner, fresh raspberries sprinkled with sugar. Someone pours whole milk into their bowl of raspberries and I consider doing the same, but figure I should hold off on the full lactose embrace for now. See what the morning milk does to my skin and go from there.
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I didn’t sleep well last night, but tonight will be different. There’s nothing quite like a hard-earned sleep after a day of physical labor.
M
Bits and Bobs
For beautiful, natural nails, all you need is this (apply generously morning and night) and nail file.
Pure pastry beauty.
Fascinating to read about what a few months worth of tariff income could do for Americans. If only!
A Quote From A Book I’m Currently Reading:
“She laughed and glanced at her finger nails--the only part of one's person, she had observed, of which it was possible to be conscious socially.”
-The Last September by Elizabeth Bowen