My lawn. For the first time. My lines were squiggly and far from landscaper-worthy. But, today, I gave the pull cord a ceremonial tug -- the cord that had on the one end, a life tightly coiled in anticipation, a fuel tank full to the brim of latent energy trapped and waiting to start up. On the other end, a joyous and loud release of energy, the power to drive, the freedom to be, to do, to go.To mow the lawn. To take care of business. To move. On.
A friend who's gone through a divorce said his 'mowing the lawn' moment came in the form of 'How will my child eat?' It was that pivotal quirky moment that the balance of my new life seemingly was hanging on to -- long after I have hauled away the bigger rocks and limbs to clear the path I had chosen to take. It's like the pesky pebbles that stop you in your tracks when you mow. You just can't avoid them.
Everyday when I come home from work, I would see the grass on each side of the driveway inching their way into my psyche, swishing and swirling their blades up against my consciousness. They became the most visual confirmation of a change that had taken place in the household over the winter. A change I worked through privately with close friends. Behind closed doors.
Except for now.
Now, my lawn is calling out to let me know: Winter is over. Spring is in its place and growth is paramount as it is unavoidable. It is time.
How often has nature been the inspiration for our life's work? We toil at keeping up with the weeds in our lives, we count on the promise of seasons to save us from the winters of our circumstances and we're only too familiar with the consequences of a flower bed left unnurtured.
I'm not sure if my act of mowing will find itself in the ranks of literary excellence anytime soon. But, in my books, today, I picked up the pebble in my path (which weighed a pesky ton incidentally), started up the mower and ... mowed.
And, yes, I am back.
