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.