Break time

break time

The most popular bit of fiction that I’ve written has a hero who won’t mow his lawn because of the myriad delights he finds among the wildflowers that grow when he leaves it alone. I feel like a hypocrite every time I pass a whirring, cutting machine across our yard.

This is in part a compromise aimed at peace with the person who shares this land and life with me, in part an acknowledgment that she knows more about tending land than I. When we did let the land go its own way, before we built the house, it was not a wondrous and diverse ecosystem, as invasive species dominated the landscape: goldenrod, sweet clover, buckthorn …

We have started patches of prairie here and there, where we’ve cleared small spaces that let the wildflowers thrive. It’s a process measured in years rather than days or weeks.

And I tell myself the truth: We have “tamed” only a fraction of our more than three acres of paradise. Ma Nature will always have the upper hand.

Better get back to work …