210 Lawn is a Four Letter Word

I notice the flicker of light, the tiny little bulb in the distance. I see something there on the horizon. We are moving to it, or it is moving to us, or both.

It really is.  No adaptation in spelling is necessary; lawn is obviously four letters.  This is not the normal season for complaints.  And honestly, I like yard work, so it is odd that I do comment on such things.  But lawns are controlled, unnatural, needy bits of land that people in “civilized” society believe to be a requirement. Where did that inspiration appear?  In a grass manufacturing plant?  Pot is far more lucrative.  I suggest that.

So, out in the yard, the leaves are almost all off the trees.  We have a straggler that chooses to end in December, but he lives in the front where there is no unnatural grass.  I am raking leaves.  That seems like an October activity, but they were up in the trees back then.  Our weather has been unseasonably warm.  Raking and breathing are rejuvenating.  The lawn gets one point for that.  It is happy.

As I make my way around the yard, gathering, I notice that the fir cones are minimal.  Last year, I was buried in them, one every inch or two.  Now, they are few and far between.  Was the wild fire theory accurate?  Did the trees of the Northwest feel less threatened during this fire season since they had coned the world during the prior one?

I scoop up a pile a cones, then a wheel barrow of leaves, and another pile of cones.  The cones are on the edges of the garden beds.  I left them there last year, unintentionally, because of emergency surgery.  Maybe I left them there because of snow… and then eventually emergency surgery.  I think that’s right.  At any rate, I feel odd facing them again, completely a year old task.

So much of my day is spent this way, scooping up the incomplete and finishing it, tying it up with a seasonal bow.  

We are in a reflective space.  The darkness.  The approach of the Solstice, when the days will finally lengthen.  It doesn’t require action.  But it may require noticing, focus, and a bit of will toward ending, finishing, leaving things behind.

I notice the flicker of light, the tiny little bulb in the distance.  I see something there on the horizon.  We are moving to it, or it is moving to us, or both.  Enjoy the blanket of the deep, dark sky. Snuggle in and embrace it.  The light is nearing, getting clearer, calling.  You will see and hear it sooner than you can believe!

Author: Michele Plumb Stowell

Michele Stowell was a teacher, a hand holder, and encouraging voice. Born an early Gen Xer, she has lived in Western Washington for the duration. Her children, two spectacular genetic daughters and an uncountable number of marvelous scout and school sons and daughters, shine as her biggest impact and her greatest blessing. Just before her 54th birthday, Michele was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Her writing and art work are expressions of the drama and the joy of living earth bound. On October 24, 2021, Michele was released from her physical body, transported to continue her work on other realms.

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