I live in a community in the Sonoran Desert. It’s a place where “lawn” is defined by the shade of stone that covers your yard: Desert Gold, Apache Rose, Santa Fe Brown. Rain is seasonal and precious. And after the rains, an amazing thing happens … the desert turns green. Not in a lush temperate forest sort of way, but in a hushed and quiet sort of way. At first it’s barely noticeable. And then on a fine, warm day in early spring the green breaks out everywhere, pushing through stone, digging into the hard-packed sand.

But do we reverence this seasonal blossoming of life? No. On a fine, warm day in early spring I am outside ripping up all evidence of this annual miracle. Only a short list of approved specimens, mostly cactus, are allowed here. A delicate wash of less pretentious green joyfully announcing Spring is considered rude. It brings down property values. And therefore, community opinion condemns and fines those who are not diligent in eradicating the threat. Most of my neighbors can be seen out with their gallon jugs of herbicide, waging war on the enemy.

Am I the only one appalled by this? I bend and kneel and pull by hand, silently asking forgiveness, wondering at the insanity of civilization and the price we pay to be part of it.