Independence

Hi.  I want to write again.

But there's one thing I need to do first, as briefly and simply as possible.  It's important that I mention it, because the entire landscape of my life has changed.

This past month was a quiet one blog-wise because I have new responsibilities and some new roles, beyond the three small plays I'm currently in. Theatre has seemed more normal than normal life most of the time this month. But we did the normal things too: my sister-in-law visited, and we've been swimming and sailing in boats shaped like waterfowl.

As for the rest... for awhile, I was caught up on a funny word: detraction. But then I realized, I can "just say it."

With a long story, of course. :) Here was one of my attempts:

Lawning the mow, solo

I was rather proud of my Lowe's purchase.

Right up until the moment my favorite neighbor said, "Hey! Doing it old school, huh?"

I suppose a push, rotating mower is--rather--"old school."  And yes, I just bought it new, and yes, they do still make them.

My Dad had one when I was growing up. I remember the large rotating blades.  I remember it quickly finding a permanent home in the damp garage, replaced by the power version.

My manual lawn-mower version has a nicely rubberized handle and is "rust proof."  But yes, it's essentially the same thing.

I've never mowed the lawn before. I don't ascribe to "man's work" and "woman's work" when it comes to household chores. But there are enough household chores that the lawn had simply never fallen to my care. Until now.

Whirr whirr whirr pop.  Whirr pop.  Whirr pop pop.  I started timidly, going after the tallest grasses first (and yes, we grow every type of (legal) grass here on Ingleside.

But the blasted thing did not respond to timidity. It needed full control.

Standing squarely behind it, I rammed the thing, up and down the uneven ground, in fiercely determined rows.  It worked... better. But not well.  Far from well.  I pushed faster.

I realized I was angry. Angry at the stubborn straggling grasses that refused to yield, or break, or even bend. That popped right back up, mocking me.  Despite the fact that I had gone over them over and over and over again.

It didn't seem fair. To try so, so hard to make something work, and have it refuse to cooperate. To have the stupid grass stay the same problem it was before, no matter how many passes I made at it, how hard or how many times I tried.  All that work... seemingly for nothing.

Maybe I was using the wrong tool.  I'll find the weed whacker and have another go at it, after I take a bit of a break. I need a break.  In the process of charging through the grass, glorying in the carnage of the more cooperative vegetation, I plowed my face into a low hanging dogwood branch. I now have an impressive scrape on my eyelid.

Yes, I'm very glad it wasn't my eye. I'm not above being grateful. Even now, when I'm the one to mow the lawn.

There are many reasons a woman finds herself in charge of the yardwork, and the housework, and indeed any work that comes to keeping a house with kids in it. Some are good reasons, and some aren't so great.

And while I can't share them all, I know I have the best of reasons for being alone right now. And I know everything will be okay.

But I'm still mad at the grass I couldn't cut. I mean, I saw the problems, saw them for a long, long time. Worked so hard to fix them. I don't understand why they didn't go away. I really don't. It doesn't seem right not to succeed in the end, when you try and cry and pray and hurt so hard for so long with such determination. You know?

And like I said, I'm willing to try again, later. I think. But for now, I have to take time to tend to my eye first, and rest my back, and hug my kids.

Formally separated, I currently live in a household of five females. Thanks for your prayers.