I heard on public radio recently, there's a thing called Weed

“I heard on public radio recently, there’s a thing called Weed Dating. Singles get together in a garden and weed and then they take turns, they keep matching up with other people. Two people will weed down one row and switch over with two other people. It’s in Vermont. I don’t think I’d be very good at Weed Dating.” So spoke Roy Blount, Jr., half in jest, yet within the humor lies a mirror of truth about our times and our hearts. For beneath this curious tale of people meeting among rows of growing things, there is a deep parable—a lesson on labor, connection, humility, and the slow cultivation of love, much like the soil itself must be tended before any harvest can come.

In ancient days, before machines replaced hands, people worked side by side in the fields. They knew that to till the earth together was to share in life’s rhythm—to learn patience, to read the seasons, to understand not only the soil, but the soul of another. In that shared toil was born friendship, laughter, and sometimes love. And though Blount speaks with the lightness of humor, the image of two people weeding together is one of sacred symbolism: that love, like a garden, must be cultivated by effort, not found by chance. To weed is to remove what is unnecessary, what chokes the life of what might grow. So too, in human hearts, must we remove fear, vanity, and haste, that we may see the other person clearly and tenderly.

In the tale of Weed Dating, there is something both modern and ancient. The modern world, restless and ever hungry for novelty, has forgotten that the truest bonds are forged not in fleeting words or digital sparks, but in shared work—in quiet collaboration, in the humble act of doing something together. How ironic and yet how wise that in Vermont, people return to the garden to seek one another! It is as though the earth herself, tired of human loneliness, calls her children back to kneel beside her, to labor shoulder to shoulder once more, and perhaps, through that shared tending, to rediscover affection’s gentle seed.

Remember the story of Ruth and Boaz, from the ancient fields of Bethlehem. Ruth gleaned grain beneath the sun, a widow laboring among the harvesters, and it was there, amid work and sweat and simplicity, that love took root. She did not find her destiny in grand feasts or chance encounters, but in the fields of work. The eyes that watched her saw not pretense, but diligence, humility, and grace. So it is with those who meet in gardens—the ones who stoop together in the dirt often rise together with deeper understanding. Love, when born from honest labor, endures; for it is grounded not in appearance, but in shared truth.

Blount’s wry confession—“I don’t think I’d be very good at Weed Dating”—is the voice of humility, and perhaps of self-knowledge. It reminds us that not all are comfortable with vulnerability, with the slow and earthy work of connection. Many seek love as they would a prize, swift and shining, rather than as a harvest to be tended. Yet there is great wisdom in admitting one’s awkwardness, for it is the first step toward authenticity. Better to be awkward and real than polished and false. The field rewards those who show up sincerely, not those who feign perfection.

From this story, the lesson emerges: relationships, like gardens, require care. You must prepare the soil of your spirit. Pull out the weeds of pride and impatience. Water with kindness. Expose yourself to the sunlight of truth, and allow time to do its sacred work. Do not fear the dirt, the imperfection, the effort—it is there that the beauty of life grows. Whether in love, friendship, or community, the act of tending is holy.

So let us heed the parable hidden in the humor. Seek others not only in pleasure, but in purpose. Share a task. Build something. Clean, plant, repair, create. These are the modern forms of Weed Dating that anyone may practice. For in shared work, hearts align in rhythm; laughter becomes the music of the day; and the garden—be it real or symbolic—yields fruits far greater than those of the soil.

And when next you find yourself laughing at the strange customs of others, remember: even in jest, truth hides. For perhaps, like Roy Blount, we all feel a little unsure about Weed Dating—yet deep within us, we yearn for its meaning: the longing to connect through something honest, grounded, and real. So go forth, child of the future, and plant your own row. The earth is waiting for your hands.