Thorny things

This isn't a very good picture, but we have a small seating area looking towards the upper pond enclosed by what is meant to be a rose arbor. I got impatient when the climbing roses I planted didn't grow fast enough to suit me, probably because the area is too shady, so I planted honeysuckle vines there as well. To the right side of the arbor there is a Santa Rosa plum; to the left a Bears lime, and behind it is an orchid tree.

Today I worked on removing Bermuda grass from the area at the base of the climbing roses. This task can be somewhat dangerous because (a) I don't like to wear gloves when I'm weeding because it affects my grip and dexterity and (b) it's very easy to grab a thin rose cane along with a handful of Bermuda grass, resulting in (c) the painful realization that unlike Bermuda grass, rose canes are have thorns and express their considerable reluctance at being uprooted by leaving deep gashes in my hands.

This made me think about thorny things. One option would be: Don't plant thorny things. In our yard, this would include not only roses, but also bougainvillea and citrus trees. But then we would miss the fragrance of the roses, the extravagantly vibrant color of the bougainvillea, and the taste of tree-ripened oranges, grapefruit, lemon, and limes.

There's a lot that's thorny in life, especially when it comes to human relationships. People can frustrate, disappoint, and hurt you at times, but I wouldn't want to be a hermit, any more than I'd want my backyard to be a barren wasteland of crushed granite.