A greener kind of grass…


Life always looks better from the other side of sorrow.  When I first met my former spouse, I became his “yard boy.”  I mowed the grass for his office, trimmed hedges, and planted the border flowers.  I loved this work, and when we married, I did all of that for our home and myself.

When we moved out west, we had no grass.  So I raked the dirt.  I pulled the prickery overgrowth.  I chopped wayward cacti, and trimmed all the stabbing, biting plants that grow prolifically in the desert.  I used this physical work as free thinking time.  Many days, it was recovery time for the latest assault to my integrity from my husband. 

When I first moved into my tiny house, I had a broken right wrist, and no machinery with which to care for my own yard.  Over time, as my strength returned, both physically and emotionally, I began to take over the care of my own little sanctuary.   Yesterday, as I mowed, I thought how delightful I felt in cutting the grass, edging the borders, digging a hole for the gift of a baby lilac bush, and watering all that I have planted, and discovered in my garden.

The harshness of the life I had out west with all the stickery growth has given way to the softness and blooming greenness surrounding my tiny home.  Grass is not just grass.  It is what I make of it, how I care for it, and the way in which I have settled into its protection.  That my family is within sight, my neighbors are wonderful, and my crazy, sweet puppy is my helpmate makes it all the better.


About Horton Hears Herself

Here I am, listening to myself for the first time in my life! I like what I am hearing, most of the time. This time of listening to myself, discovering myself, and learning how to have my dream life is a rocky path with surprises, good and bad.

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