I have always loved mowing my lawn. The perfectionist in me loved taming the wild grass. Plus, I love the smell (allergies be damned).
Over the winter my one-season-old, beautifully red and self-propelled, mower was stolen. I couldn't afford to replace it. My neighbor mowed my lawn a few times but my depression grew. I missed the physical toil of it. I tried, and failed, to breathe life into my old, dirty, green mower. But no dice.
My front yard is small, so I bought a push reel mower and kept my front lawn intact (because this is the one everyone could see. Appearances and such). But my backyard. Oh, my hilly, weedy backyard. The push reel couldn't keep up. And I threw my hands up, exclaimed "FUCK IT" loud enough I should have received some sort of police citation for indecency. No one could see the damn thing and I was done fighting. I succumbed to my lawn.
This morning I snapped. No amount of meditation or impermanence could save me. I shuddered and shaked. Tears and mucous flowed freely while my husband, who has maybe seen me cry a handful of times in the last decade, tried his best to help me regain my composure. I wanted to explode. And I decided that I was going to get control of something.
I got dressed and marched outside. I made my way through the wet, knee-high weeds and grass. I wished desperately for a machete so I could just start hacking until I collapsed from exhaustion.
Once I was at my shed I pulled out my old Lawnboy. This bitch was going to start whether it liked it or not. So I pulled. And I pulled. Every time I extended my arm I got more determined. This mower, my lawn, they were my own personal Everest.
I can't change the past. I can't erase the mess that has ruled my life over the past few months. But I was going to get this lawn mower started. I was going to win this battle.
The engine rumbled and stopped. I egged it on; told my faithful Lawnboy that we were in this together. That though it was old, and didn't run well, and had been all but forgotten in favor of a shiny red Toro, it could start. It could win. I wound up that engine as a way to get some peace.
It roared to life. Blue smoke pouring out of the two-stroke engine. Beautiful smoke and determined shuddering.
My Lawnboy seemed to shout, "I am fucking stronger than time, and rust, wet grass and weeds. I have a fucking job to do and I am going to do it. Nothing can stop me."
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