On Black Friday I didn't go shopping, although I originally had thoughts that I might. The day simply didn't work out that way. Instead, I worked in my yard. It sorely needed it. There were leaves to rake, plants to cut back, sections of the garden to turn under, and grass to be mowed.
I've written before how I always feel better after cutting the grass, and I've shared that my yard is one of my favorite places. The older I get the more I realize that working and walking in my own back yard, no matter the season, brings a peculiar calmness and clarity to my thoughts. Some special alchemy is at work -- as I work to bring order to the landscape around me, raking here or pruning there, order settles in the landscape within me. I think. I pray. I solve problems by not even thinking about them. I become more aware of the air I'm breathing. I feel more rooted, more connected, daresay, more happy.
So, on Friday, as people were scoring fabulous deals on appliances, getting shiny new TV's, and battling crowds to save 50% on their entire Old Navy purchases (all wonderful things, perhaps with the exception of the crowds), I was cutting my grass, one strip at a time, enjoying the lines I was leaving in my wake.
I was raking over the cherry tomatoes that had fallen off the vines when I yanked the plants out earlier this month, remembering how deliciously they paired with fresh basil, balsamic vinaigrette, and mozzarella all summer long. I was wondering if I'd plant more zucchini plants next spring, or whether we should try yellow squash, too, or if one cilantro plant would be enough.
I was wiping my nose on my sleeve because I forgot to tuck Kleenex in my hoodie pocket, and I was thankful for my leather work gloves because my hands would have taken a beating without them. I was burning brush in our fire pit, and dragging leaves on a tarp to the front curb for the magical leaf-sucking-truck that occasionally visits our street, and noticing that hydrangea blooms, even when browned and brittle, still look elegant.
I was feeling productive in that easy cadence of relaxed outside work -- seeing a distinct difference between where I'd been and where I was headed, but feeling feeling no rush because the leaves that didn't get raked would still be there tomorrow, if need be.
Every once in while I thought about shopping: what if my hands were manicured, not dirty? What if I were wearing cute clothes, not my old boots and work jeans? What if I were sipping Starbucks? What if something great was out there, wherever "there" was, and I wasn't doing it, seeing it, or experiencing it?
But then I'd look at my surroundings and realize that, really, I had all that I needed. I wasn't missing out. There wasn't some better, more glamorous day that I should be living. I was right where I ought to be, right where I wanted to be.
I was right in my own back yard.
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I've written before how I always feel better after cutting the grass, and I've shared that my yard is one of my favorite places. The older I get the more I realize that working and walking in my own back yard, no matter the season, brings a peculiar calmness and clarity to my thoughts. Some special alchemy is at work -- as I work to bring order to the landscape around me, raking here or pruning there, order settles in the landscape within me. I think. I pray. I solve problems by not even thinking about them. I become more aware of the air I'm breathing. I feel more rooted, more connected, daresay, more happy.
So, on Friday, as people were scoring fabulous deals on appliances, getting shiny new TV's, and battling crowds to save 50% on their entire Old Navy purchases (all wonderful things, perhaps with the exception of the crowds), I was cutting my grass, one strip at a time, enjoying the lines I was leaving in my wake.
I was raking over the cherry tomatoes that had fallen off the vines when I yanked the plants out earlier this month, remembering how deliciously they paired with fresh basil, balsamic vinaigrette, and mozzarella all summer long. I was wondering if I'd plant more zucchini plants next spring, or whether we should try yellow squash, too, or if one cilantro plant would be enough.
I was wiping my nose on my sleeve because I forgot to tuck Kleenex in my hoodie pocket, and I was thankful for my leather work gloves because my hands would have taken a beating without them. I was burning brush in our fire pit, and dragging leaves on a tarp to the front curb for the magical leaf-sucking-truck that occasionally visits our street, and noticing that hydrangea blooms, even when browned and brittle, still look elegant.
I was feeling productive in that easy cadence of relaxed outside work -- seeing a distinct difference between where I'd been and where I was headed, but feeling feeling no rush because the leaves that didn't get raked would still be there tomorrow, if need be.
Every once in while I thought about shopping: what if my hands were manicured, not dirty? What if I were wearing cute clothes, not my old boots and work jeans? What if I were sipping Starbucks? What if something great was out there, wherever "there" was, and I wasn't doing it, seeing it, or experiencing it?
But then I'd look at my surroundings and realize that, really, I had all that I needed. I wasn't missing out. There wasn't some better, more glamorous day that I should be living. I was right where I ought to be, right where I wanted to be.
I was right in my own back yard.
