A greener kind of grass…

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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.

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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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