KUDZU

Trees are ubiquitous. They physically represent the concept of growth. Trees serve as a great metaphor because they grow in every direction.

Trees grow upward, stretching toward the heavens. Their trunks bear most of the weight. Trees taking the time to increase their girth in proportion to their height provide a sturdy frame upon which to rise.

As they grow tall, they branch out sideways as far as their multiple “arms” will reach. Given the opportunity, their limbs extend outward to one another or anything residing close to them. They touch and coexist with whatever is beside them, as if embracing neighbors.

Tree roots grow downward. They slowly twist and turn as they burrow through the earth, creating a foundation strong enough to weather most of the turbulent storms Mother Nature unleashes.

When they’re damaged, even dismembered, trees recover and continue growing. Each year they produce seeds, cleverly partnering with wind and animals to perpetuate themselves by propagating new offspring in different locations. Their persistent resolve is a tribute to the power of the life force itself.

Many other flowering plants sprout, bloom, and die all within a single season. Trees grow slowly and exist for a long time. They generally outlast, sometimes by decades and even centuries, the hardier perennial flowers which span a few years.

One fast growing plant that threatens trees is kudzu. Native to Japan, kudzu arrived in the United States less than two hundred years ago. It’s a vine that shoots rapidly, invading the surrounding flora at relatively break-neck speed.

Kudzu grows tendrils in any direction it finds opportunity. These tendrils attach themselves to other plants, walls of buildings, and climb up the bark of trees. As they cling, gaining further territory, they wrap themselves around tree limbs. Climbing higher and higher, the tendrils’ grasp restricts the growth of tree branches. Left unhindered the tendrils increase in thickness and strength to the point they pull tree limbs down.

Cutting these large tendrils releases kudzu’s immediate hold. The tree gains some respite as it recovers and continues its growth. But, insidious new tendrils grow to replace them. Their threadlike thinness makes them almost invisible to see until they grow thicker and again present a clear danger.

It’s virtually impossible to eliminate kudzu. Digging up the root ball effectively removes that plant’s ability to spread its harm, but new plants spring from other root balls and resume the battle. It’s as if all individual kudzu vines constitute a single network. They are extensions of the same core reality existing solely to destroy harmony.

Fear is like kudzu. Fear starts as thin wisps wrapping around us. As it gains strength, its pull restricts our growth. The vines multiply and thicken, pulling us down, threatening to smother us by sheer volume.

We can prune back fear, giving ourselves room to recover. But, it’s a constant struggle. Fear is ever-present. Its insidious fingers constantly reach and restrict our harmony. We cannot eradicate fear, but by persistence we can cut off each vine when we see it.

Fear is to humans as kudzu is to trees.

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