Yesterday, for the first time since I started my blog, I skipped making a post. Usually if I haven’t had time to write, I’ll find an old poem or even repost a previously shared poem. Yesterday, the thought crossed my mind, briefly, that I needed to either blog about something or select a poem. Obviously, I did neither. Instead, I grabbed a shovel and a garden spade, headed out into the front yard, and began pulling (actually—digging) weeds.
The torrential rains from a few days ago left our skies clear and cerulean. A cool breeze fingered my hair as I knelt upon the damp earth while the background of birdsong provided the rhythm to my chore. You won’t hear me complaining about the clover that clumps in large patches in my lawn. I won’t whimper or whine about the dandelions that hit mid-calf and have shot roots three to six inches deep. Instead, I relished the mud that caked my hands and packed under my short nails. When I dug out a weed’s root and found the soil wet, relief flooded through me. These weeds mean the end of our long drought. At least for now, we’ve cycled into a weather pattern of cooler fronts carrying rain. Gray clouds boil across the sky, dump and inch or two of rain, and move on to another location.
Once I removed the bush-sized weeds, David mowed. To anyone passing by, our lawn looks a lovely green. Most of the grass recovered from the scorching of the summer, and the mowed smaller weeds camouflage most of the damage the drought inflicted.
So today, I have no new ideas for a blog post. In my mind, I’m kneeling in gratitude among the weeds, thankful in the knowledge that our Mother’s receiving the nourishment she needs to sow.
Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman