Do Not Remove

The Bull Thistle Speaks From Beyond The Veil

We waited two years for the Cirsium Vulgare to flower. It’s commonly known as a spear thistle or bull thistle. It started out as a spiky looking dandelion in the fall of 2022. I stepped on it in the garden bed by our front door. At our home we often let the weeds grow. Ever had bacon, shallots and fried dandelion greens with a farm fresh sunny side up egg? The bitter, fat and salt is divine. So this small thistle that stuck me in the foot had an aggressive look and I decided to let it do its thing. Winter was coming and it would most likely die anyway.

Picking apples off the ground that fell from our neighbors tree into our yard, my girlfriend Fiona stepped on two more. Little bastards, Ouch! But so cool looking and different than other green things growing in our untamed backyard.

Fast forward to the spring of 2023. All three plants made it through the winter and survived our few random snowfalls and temperatures in the teens. It’s Washington State, so nothing like the brutality of midwest winters or erratic snowstorms in Colorado I remember growing up. The spiky specimens were branching out and starting to look almost prehistoric. We wondered if they could be decorative artichokes like some of the neighbors grew in our neighborhood. They progressed with force and had a foreboding vibe so we were curious to watch them continue.

Fast forward one more year to this spring and they had survived a second winter, so surely they had earned the right to persist. We knew they were thistles by now and were eagerly awaiting the purple blossoms to come. In the next few weeks it was as if they were touched by the hand of the Green Man as they quadrupled in size and started going vertical, shooting out gnarly branches covered in thorny leaves. Truly monstrous!

The blooms came a few weeks later. Green pods erupted into dense tassels of purple stamens. The geometry and intelligent design was symmetrical and mesmerizing. Then the pollinators started showing up. Honey bees, flying ants, regular bees and all sorts of insects I can’t name.

We sat in our lounge chairs admiring our thorny friends when a hummingbird arrived to sip nectar. Over the course of the next few weeks, this happened hundreds of times. These purple flowers were like free-range, backyard crack for all things that fly.

Our two year wait had materialized into a firework show in ultraslow motion of buds popping into color and slowly drying, releasing a silver parasol with seed attached into the breeze. I had seen these seeds many times, but was unaware of the origin. It brought me joy knowing that these would be floating by the thousands into our neighbors yard. They’re the ones who throw away apples from their trees by the hundreds, bitching and cursing as bucket loads go over the fence into the field behind. Maybe the seeds would take purchase in fertile soil and grow spiky leaves beckoning the tender undersides of their feet? Oh yes, this is magnificent. A karma collaborative between plant and human.

The two backyard thistles had grown five feet tall and created an enclosure around the bird bath. Juncos, finches and thrush felt safe enough to linger a little longer and rest awhile. They didn’t have to fear the coopers hawks that would fly through the air capable of a midair strike and kill.

A pair of mated goldfinches would take turns landing on the fluffy seed heads, bobbing up and down from their weight as they picked out the food. This happened several nights in a row. The last time we saw only one. Its mate was gone.

The thistle leaves started to yellow and dry, tens of thousand of seeds had dispersed with a hundred thousand more to go. We felt a sense of pride and guardianship that we had sat back and observed the process unfold and the sustenance, community and protection these plants had brought to our ecosystem.

The thistle by our front door was six feet tall and five feet wide. We regarded it as a sentinel, watching guard over our front door. Not unlike how a single Devil’s Club branch was sometimes buried near the entryway for protection by Pacific Northwest Natives. Another plant in some ways similar. Our bull thistle was truly a healthy specimen that was watered and allowed to flourish. They’re commonly found in barren and parched conditions like along railroad tracks or by Hillbilly Hotties, the bikini barista by the weed shop north of town. I just made that up, but it sounds like a good environment to grow.

My bro and his family were coming to town. The front thistle was getting unruly, its long arms reaching toward the walkway attempting to make contact with bare skin as we approached our house. So I decided to clean up the yard, cut the tree suckers growing up through the grass and take out the thistle.

It didn’t go down without a fight. Cowhide gloves were no match for its bite. Limb by limb I dismantled it and put it in the yard waste bin. I few chops in and my stomach turned. I felt like a turd. What was I doing? I had waited years to see this mystery plant grow. My decision making on the why had me dumbfounded as I kept going. Seed parachutes were heavy in the air. Several tried to assault my nostrils. I deserved it. I was finally down to the root ball. I gave it a hard pull and tore it out. It’s roots looked like parsnip fingers covered in soil.

That’s when I shuddered and a chill went through my body. Twisted up in the roots was a piece of clear plastic tape and written in bold letters, DO NOT REMOVE.

What had I done? I admired this plant so. It was our energetic guardian, it was shelter and food for flying insects and hummingbirds. I sank to my knees wishing I could unwind the last fifteen minutes of labor. Would I encounter seven years of bad luck? Is my stewardship for living things a big fat sham?

I buried the root ball back in the same hole. I’ve been watering it everyday in hopes it grows back. The two thistles in the corner garden out back will grow until there is no life left in their bodies. This was the first time the plant kingdom had bridged the gap and spoke human to me. It shamed me for actions I knew better than to follow through with. Sorry buddy. You were worthy of more and I ended it for a reason I can’t even explain now.