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Perennial Weeds

How would I be without the hand-weeding experience? What kind of person?
On my last visit to my grandparents' village, (God rest them in peace!) I walked into the garden I used to clear of weeds every summer holiday. A wave of peace and happiness washed over me, just as it always had. The taller the weed, the greater the challenge, and I relished it.
I remember my legs flailing skyward, a comical sight for the neighbors, all in the ambitious pursuit of a "Giant Radish" of a weed. But the real trophy wasn't just the cleared patch; it was the earth-filled roots, tangled and deep—proof of a long-fought, satisfying prize. That garden was vast enough to cleanse my mind as I worked, a sprawling canvas for quiet contemplation.
And I wasn't just working for myself. I was a benefactor to the humble residents of the farm: the cow, the hens, the pig, and all the other domestic animals that so genuinely appreciated the simple things in life. Those were times of bliss, never to be forgotten.

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