April 29, 2024 • 35 mins
Our story tonight is called First Mow of the Year, and it’s a story about a day of yard work as spring arrives in full. It’s also about pinecones and ladybugs, a glass of water enjoyed on the porch step, the sun on the back of your neck, and the shared experiences that connect us.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to the Michigan Environmental Justice Coalition. Working for a world where all of us, no matter our race, place, or politics, have access to affordable, renewable, and community-controlled energy.
Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favourites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners:
Eversio Wellness: Chill Now, Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle, Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap, NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies, A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book, NuStrips: Sleep Strips, Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On.
Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts, or follow the link below https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription.
Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.
Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-Happens
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens,
you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay.
I read and write all the stories you hear on
(00:25):
Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Witterersheim. We
give to a different charity each week, and this week
we are giving to Michigan Environmental Justice Coalition, working for
(00:46):
a world where all of us, no matter our race, place,
or politics, have access to affordable, renewable, and community controlled energy.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
(01:07):
Today marks six years of telling you bedtime Stories, which
has become the most exciting, gentle adventure of my life.
And it seems fitting that today I can share something
I've been working on for quite a while, something created
(01:31):
just for you to bring a piece of the village
into your homes and to guide you into healthy wind
down routines that will feel so good. This month, we
are releasing but Nothing Much Happens wind Down Box, a
(01:52):
wellness box of hand selected products that I personally use
and that I love, along with a few exclusive stories
to round out your cozy routines. Each box features products
specially selected for your relaxation from Everescio Wellness's Chill Now
(02:19):
a high potency organic certified Raschi mushroom extract to nutri
Champs tart cherry gummies great for sleep and reducing inflammation,
and they taste great. There's a lavender candle to mark
your moment of calm from our favorite small batch candle
(02:42):
maker's Vella Box. A meditative activity for you by way
of a Brighter Years mini coloring book, a fantastic way
to disconnect from your screen and tap into your creative self.
Before then, more mushrooms, this time in chocolate specially formulated
(03:07):
for sleep, from the lovely team behind Alice Mushrooms. And
some delicious essential oils to rub on your wrists and
neck from our friends at Woolsey's. And of course some
melatonin for those who need an extra helping hand to
rest by way of new strips. Place it on your
(03:29):
tongue and it dissolves in seconds. Like everything in this village,
we took our time to create this for you. It's
such a pleasure to be able to help so many
of you, to tuck you in at night and to
(03:49):
keep watch till the morning. And I'm excited to help
create comfort in new ways with our first ever wind
down box. Head over to Nothing Much Happens dot com
for more information. Now, after six years and more than
(04:12):
one hundred and thirty million downloads, I've kind of cracked
the code on how to help you sleep. I'll tell
you a story. Nothing much happens in it. You just
rest your mind on the words, follow along with my voice,
(04:34):
and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling rested and refreshed.
I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower
the second time through. If you wake again in the night,
you can turn a story right back on. You'll drop
(04:56):
right back to sleep. If you're new to this, be patient.
This is brain training, and it may take some regular
use to work reliably. Our story tonight is called first
Mow of the Year, and it's a story about a
(05:20):
day of yard work as spring arrives in full. It's
also about pine cones and ladybugs, a glass of water
enjoyed on the porch step, the sun on the back
of your neck, and the shared experiences that connect us.
(05:47):
Now it's time turn out the light, set down your device,
and slide down to your sheets. There is nothing left
to do. Nothing remains but that you rest. I'll be
(06:12):
here reading even after you've fallen asleep. Let jaw, shoulders,
hands and hips all relax. All is well now we rest.
(06:35):
Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh
from your mouth. Nice, do that one more time. Breathe
in and let it go good. First mow of the year.
(07:10):
I stood outside the garage, my fingers reaching for the handle,
but looking over my shoulder into the back yard and beyond,
past the tree line that marked the yard next door,
(07:30):
at all the green growth and flowers that had shot
up and blossomed in the last week or so. We
slept with the windows cracked last night, and this morning
I had opened more airing out the house. The staleness
(07:55):
of long cold months washed away in minutes. I wanted
to get outside as soon as I could, and looking
out from the kitchen window, I could see a day's
worth of chores waiting for me. The weather had been
(08:20):
warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on
any mowing or cutting back, waiting for all the little
critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few
meals first. It seemed like to day might finally be
(08:45):
the day for it. I turned back to the garage
and gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a
little bend in my knees, and a strong push up
on the door to send it gliding into place. I
(09:13):
thought about getting an opener put on, but there was
something about opening it by hand that I actually liked.
It was a very specific movement, one that was buried
deep in my muscle memory, from when I would hoist
(09:37):
open the garage door for my grandpa so he could
get his tractor out. The rattily clatter of the old
door moving on its track, the gust of scent from
inside tools and dust and wood shavings, the way my
(10:01):
wrist knew how far to turn my knees, how much
to bend, And then inside the garage, the neat peg
boarts hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into
place and waiting for its next job. My own garage
(10:27):
was not quite as neat as his had been, but
still there was a sort of order to the chaos.
I stepped in and propped my hands on my hips,
(10:47):
looking around at the tools and stacks of pots. First
things first, I thought, and reached for a pair of
garbs and gloves. My thumb went right through a hole
in the fabric, and I laughed, recognizing the pair as
(11:12):
one I'd bought years ago when I'd tilled my first garden.
They were cream with red dots that, if you looked
close enough, were distinguishable as ladybugs. I took them off
(11:34):
and tucked them into my back pocket, thinking that I
could probably fix them up with a needle and thread.
In a jiffy, I found a second pair, this one
without any terribly large holes had put them on. I
(11:56):
wheeled my more out onto the sidewalk and shook out
a lawn bag beside it. From down the block, I
heard the stuttering start of some one else's mower and
cupped my hand over my eyes to shield out the
(12:18):
sun and peer through the yards. A few gardens over,
my neighbor was mowing the first path through his grass,
and within a second the scent of it hit me
(12:38):
so green and lively. I took a few deep breaths
with my eyes closed. Spring was really here, summer, just
behind in my own yard. I started to trace back
(13:02):
and forth, walking slowly with my eyes on the ground.
I picked up sticks and pine cones relocated rocks and
gathered a few scraps of trash that the wind had
(13:24):
blown in. When the grass was clear, I started my
own mower and pushed it down the length of the yard.
It reminded me suddenly of my dad's green tennis shoes
by the back door when I was a kid. They
(13:48):
hadn't started off as green, but after a day behind
the mower, they'd begun to color with chlorophyll, and he'd
given up on trying to keep them white. They'd just
become his mowing shoes. I looked down at my own
(14:12):
pair and smiled. There was something so small and simple,
a shared experience of being a grown up with chores.
But it made me really happy. This whole day did
(14:33):
I made slow, even rose with the more. I'd raised
the blade up a bit, so I was giving the
grass only a subtle hair cut. My mind got quiet
as I mowed. The steadiness of my feet pacing along
(14:56):
behind the wheels, the warm sun on the back of
my neck, the slow, careful turn at the end of
a row, lining up the wheels and starting again. Was
it so different from walking a labyrinth? Didn't feel that different.
(15:21):
I'd had a teacher once who'd recommended a walking meditation.
They'd suggested the best place for it was a grocery store.
Just get a cart and walk the aisles as slowly
as you can, notice each step. That was me Now.
(15:49):
When the back yard was done, I shut down the
mower and began to wheel it down the driveway start
in the front. Just as a quiet thirst appeared in
my throat, I noticed a tall glass of water set
(16:12):
out for me on the step of the side door. Ah,
it seemed like the perfect time for a break. I
sat down on the step and lifted the cool glass
to my lips. There were a few slices of cucumber
(16:35):
floating among the ice cubes, and it tasted so refreshing
and delicious. While I sipped, I looked across the driveway
at the house next door. They had two little boys,
(17:00):
well not so little anymore. They were growing fast in
my mind. The youngest was still riding in the stroller,
his big brother toddling beside as their dads took them
for a walk. But I knew he must now be
(17:23):
several years into elementary school, the oldest probably in middle school.
Their dog, a sweet golden Retriever named Clover, was stretched
out on her side on the back patio in the sun,
(17:44):
and even from where I sat, I could see the
slow rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed.
My glass of water finished, I set it down on
the step, pushed back up onto my feet, I reached
(18:06):
for the handle bar of the mower. In the front yard,
I repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen
branches and found one of Clover's frisbees among the Pacassandra.
I carried it to her fence and whistled for She
(18:32):
lifted her head to look at me, one ear flipped
inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth. I
showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet,
ready for me to throw it. I sent it out
(18:54):
toward the back edge of her yard, and she went
tearing after it. She didn't catch it mid air, she
wasn't that kind of dog, but she did dig it
out from where it landed near a lilac bush, and
carried it back to her patio with her tail happily
(19:17):
wagging along the way. Across the street, another neighbor was
fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter.
A new one shiny and red sat waiting on the
(19:39):
grass as she worked away with the screwdriver. Just like
the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, of
tugging at the pole cord of the moor, of green
tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun on a warm patio,
(20:03):
I knew the feeling of wrestling with a slightly rusted screw.
I restarted the mower and began to pace through the
front lawn, comforted by the moments my neighbors and I
all had in common. First mow of the year. I
(20:32):
stood outside the garage, my fingers reaching for the handle,
but looking over my shoulder into the back yard and beyond,
past the tree line that marked the yard next door,
(20:57):
at all the green growth and flowers that had shot
up and blossomed in the last week or so. We'd
slept with the windows cracked last night, and this morning
(21:18):
I had opened more, airing out the house. The staleness
of long cold months washed away in minutes. I wanted
to get outside as soon as I could, and looking
(21:40):
out from the kitchen window, I could see a day's
worth of chores waiting for me. The weather had been
warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on
any mowing or cutting back, waiting for all the little
(22:08):
critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few
meals first. It seemed like today might finally be the
day for it. I turned back to the garage and
(22:31):
gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a little
bend in my knees, and a strong push up on
the door to send it gliding into place. I'd thought
(22:54):
about getting an opener put on it, but there was
something about opening it by hand that I actually liked.
It was a very specific movement, one that was buried
deep in my muscle memory, from when I would hoist
(23:19):
open the garage door for my grandpa so he could
get his tractor out. The radially clatter of the old
door moving on its track, the gust of scent from
inside tools and dust and wood shavings, the way my
(23:48):
wrists knew how far to turn my knees, how much
to bend, And then inside the garage, neat peg boards
hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into place
(24:10):
and waiting for its next job. My own garage was
not quite as neat as his had been, but still
there was a sort of order to the chaos. I
(24:31):
stepped in and propped my hands on my hips, looking
around at the tools and stacks of pots. First things first,
I thought, and reached for a pair of garden gloves.
(24:53):
My thumb went right through a hole in the fabric,
and I laughed, recognizing the pair as one I'd bought
years before when I tilled my first garden. They were
(25:15):
cream with red dots that, if you looked close enough,
were distinguishable as ladybugs. I took them off and tucked
them into my back pocket, thinking that I could probably
(25:39):
fix them up with a needle and thread in a jiffy.
I found a second pair, this one without any terribly
large holes, and put them on. I wheeled my mower
(26:02):
out onto the sidewalk and shook out a lawn bag
beside it. From down the block, I heard the stuttering
start of some one else's mower and cupped my hand
over my eyes to shield out the sun and peer
(26:27):
through the yards. A few gardens over, my neighbor was
mowing the first path through his grass, and within a
second the scent of it hit me so green and lively.
(26:51):
I took a few deep breaths with my eyes closed
spring was really here, summer just behind in my own yard.
I started to trace back and forth, walking slowly with
(27:17):
my eyes on the ground. I picked up sticks and
pine cones, relocated rocks, and gathered a few scraps of
trash that the wind had blown in. When the grass
(27:39):
was clear, I started my own mower and pushed it
down the length of the yard. It reminded me suddenly
of my dad's green tennis shoes by the back door
when I was a kid. They hadn't started off as green,
(28:07):
but after a day behind the mower, they'd begun to
color with chlorophyll, and he'd given up trying to keep
the might. They'd just become his mowing shoes. I looked
(28:30):
down at my own pair and smiled. There was something
so small and simple, a shared experience of being a
grown up with chores. But it made me really happy.
(28:52):
This whole day dead. I made slow, even rose with
the mower. I'd raised the blade up a bit, so
I was giving the grass only a subtle hair cut.
(29:13):
My mind got quiet as I mowed, the steadiness of
my feet pacing along behind the wheels, the warm sun
on the back of my neck, the slow careful turn
(29:34):
at the end of a row, lining up the wheels,
and starting again. Was it so different from walking a labyrinth?
And didn't feel that different. I'd had a teacher once
who'd recommended a walking meditation. They'd suggested the best place
(30:02):
for it was a grocery store. Just get a cart
and walk the aisles as slowly as you can, notice
each step. That was me now. When the back yard
(30:30):
was done, I shut down the moor and began to
wheel it down the driveway to start in the front.
Just as a quiet thirst appeared in my throat, I
noticed a tall glass of water set out for me
(30:52):
on the step of the side door. Ah, it's seemed
the perfect time for upbreak. I sat down on the
step and lifted the cool glass to my lips. There
(31:13):
were a few slices of cucumber floating among the ice cubes,
and it tasted so refreshing and delicious. While I sipped,
I looked across the driveway at the house next door.
(31:35):
They had two little boys, well not so little anymore.
They were growing fast in my mind. The youngest was
still riding in the stroller, his big brother toddling beside
(31:58):
as their dads took them for a while, but I
knew he must now be several years into elementary school,
the oldest probably in middle school. Their dog, a sweet
Golden Retriever named Clover, was stretched out on her side
(32:23):
on their back patio in the sun, and even from
where I sat, I could see the slow rise and
fall of her ribs as she breathed. My glass of
water finished, I set it down on the step and
(32:46):
pushed back up on to my feet. I reached for
the handlebar of the mower in the front yard. I
repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen branches
(33:08):
and found one of Clover's frisbees among the pacissandra. I
carried it to her fence and whistled for her. She
lifted her head to look at me, one ear flipped
inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth. I
(33:35):
showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet,
ready for me to throw it. I sent it out
toward the back edge of her yard, and she went
tearing after it. She didn't catch it mid air, she
(33:58):
wasn't that kind of dog, but she did dig it
out from where it landed near a lilac bush. And
carried it back to her patio, with her tail happily
wagging along the way. Across the street, another neighbor was
(34:22):
fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter.
A new one, shiny and red, sat waiting on the
grass as she worked away with a screwdriver. Just like
(34:45):
the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, of
tugging at the pull cord of the mower, of green
tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun on a warm patio,
(35:07):
I knew that feeling of wrestling with a slightly rusted screw.
I restarted the mower and began to pace through the
front lawn, comforted by the moments my neighbors and I
(35:31):
had in common. Sweet dreams
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens,
you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay.
I read and write all the stories you hear on
(00:25):
Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Witterersheim. We
give to a different charity each week, and this week
we are giving to Michigan Environmental Justice Coalition, working for
(00:46):
a world where all of us, no matter our race, place,
or politics, have access to affordable, renewable, and community controlled energy.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
(01:07):
Today marks six years of telling you bedtime Stories, which
has become the most exciting, gentle adventure of my life.
And it seems fitting that today I can share something
I've been working on for quite a while, something created
(01:31):
just for you to bring a piece of the village
into your homes and to guide you into healthy wind
down routines that will feel so good. This month, we
are releasing but Nothing Much Happens wind Down Box, a
(01:52):
wellness box of hand selected products that I personally use
and that I love, along with a few exclusive stories
to round out your cozy routines. Each box features products
specially selected for your relaxation from Everescio Wellness's Chill Now
(02:19):
a high potency organic certified Raschi mushroom extract to nutri
Champs tart cherry gummies great for sleep and reducing inflammation,
and they taste great. There's a lavender candle to mark
your moment of calm from our favorite small batch candle
(02:42):
maker's Vella Box. A meditative activity for you by way
of a Brighter Years mini coloring book, a fantastic way
to disconnect from your screen and tap into your creative self.
Before then, more mushrooms, this time in chocolate specially formulated
(03:07):
for sleep, from the lovely team behind Alice Mushrooms. And
some delicious essential oils to rub on your wrists and
neck from our friends at Woolsey's. And of course some
melatonin for those who need an extra helping hand to
rest by way of new strips. Place it on your
(03:29):
tongue and it dissolves in seconds. Like everything in this village,
we took our time to create this for you. It's
such a pleasure to be able to help so many
of you, to tuck you in at night and to
(03:49):
keep watch till the morning. And I'm excited to help
create comfort in new ways with our first ever wind
down box. Head over to Nothing Much Happens dot com
for more information. Now, after six years and more than
(04:12):
one hundred and thirty million downloads, I've kind of cracked
the code on how to help you sleep. I'll tell
you a story. Nothing much happens in it. You just
rest your mind on the words, follow along with my voice,
(04:34):
and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling rested and refreshed.
I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower
the second time through. If you wake again in the night,
you can turn a story right back on. You'll drop
(04:56):
right back to sleep. If you're new to this, be patient.
This is brain training, and it may take some regular
use to work reliably. Our story tonight is called first
Mow of the Year, and it's a story about a
(05:20):
day of yard work as spring arrives in full. It's
also about pine cones and ladybugs, a glass of water
enjoyed on the porch step, the sun on the back
of your neck, and the shared experiences that connect us.
(05:47):
Now it's time turn out the light, set down your device,
and slide down to your sheets. There is nothing left
to do. Nothing remains but that you rest. I'll be
(06:12):
here reading even after you've fallen asleep. Let jaw, shoulders,
hands and hips all relax. All is well now we rest.
(06:35):
Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh
from your mouth. Nice, do that one more time. Breathe
in and let it go good. First mow of the year.
(07:10):
I stood outside the garage, my fingers reaching for the handle,
but looking over my shoulder into the back yard and beyond,
past the tree line that marked the yard next door,
(07:30):
at all the green growth and flowers that had shot
up and blossomed in the last week or so. We
slept with the windows cracked last night, and this morning
I had opened more airing out the house. The staleness
(07:55):
of long cold months washed away in minutes. I wanted
to get outside as soon as I could, and looking
out from the kitchen window, I could see a day's
worth of chores waiting for me. The weather had been
(08:20):
warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on
any mowing or cutting back, waiting for all the little
critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few
meals first. It seemed like to day might finally be
(08:45):
the day for it. I turned back to the garage
and gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a
little bend in my knees, and a strong push up
on the door to send it gliding into place. I
(09:13):
thought about getting an opener put on, but there was
something about opening it by hand that I actually liked.
It was a very specific movement, one that was buried
deep in my muscle memory, from when I would hoist
(09:37):
open the garage door for my grandpa so he could
get his tractor out. The rattily clatter of the old
door moving on its track, the gust of scent from
inside tools and dust and wood shavings, the way my
(10:01):
wrist knew how far to turn my knees, how much
to bend, And then inside the garage, the neat peg
boarts hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into
place and waiting for its next job. My own garage
(10:27):
was not quite as neat as his had been, but
still there was a sort of order to the chaos.
I stepped in and propped my hands on my hips,
(10:47):
looking around at the tools and stacks of pots. First
things first, I thought, and reached for a pair of
garbs and gloves. My thumb went right through a hole
in the fabric, and I laughed, recognizing the pair as
(11:12):
one I'd bought years ago when I'd tilled my first garden.
They were cream with red dots that, if you looked
close enough, were distinguishable as ladybugs. I took them off
(11:34):
and tucked them into my back pocket, thinking that I
could probably fix them up with a needle and thread.
In a jiffy, I found a second pair, this one
without any terribly large holes had put them on. I
(11:56):
wheeled my more out onto the sidewalk and shook out
a lawn bag beside it. From down the block, I
heard the stuttering start of some one else's mower and
cupped my hand over my eyes to shield out the
(12:18):
sun and peer through the yards. A few gardens over,
my neighbor was mowing the first path through his grass,
and within a second the scent of it hit me
(12:38):
so green and lively. I took a few deep breaths
with my eyes closed. Spring was really here, summer, just
behind in my own yard. I started to trace back
(13:02):
and forth, walking slowly with my eyes on the ground.
I picked up sticks and pine cones relocated rocks and
gathered a few scraps of trash that the wind had
(13:24):
blown in. When the grass was clear, I started my
own mower and pushed it down the length of the yard.
It reminded me suddenly of my dad's green tennis shoes
by the back door when I was a kid. They
(13:48):
hadn't started off as green, but after a day behind
the mower, they'd begun to color with chlorophyll, and he'd
given up on trying to keep them white. They'd just
become his mowing shoes. I looked down at my own
(14:12):
pair and smiled. There was something so small and simple,
a shared experience of being a grown up with chores.
But it made me really happy. This whole day did
(14:33):
I made slow, even rose with the more. I'd raised
the blade up a bit, so I was giving the
grass only a subtle hair cut. My mind got quiet
as I mowed. The steadiness of my feet pacing along
(14:56):
behind the wheels, the warm sun on the back of
my neck, the slow, careful turn at the end of
a row, lining up the wheels and starting again. Was
it so different from walking a labyrinth? Didn't feel that different.
(15:21):
I'd had a teacher once who'd recommended a walking meditation.
They'd suggested the best place for it was a grocery store.
Just get a cart and walk the aisles as slowly
as you can, notice each step. That was me Now.
(15:49):
When the back yard was done, I shut down the
mower and began to wheel it down the driveway start
in the front. Just as a quiet thirst appeared in
my throat, I noticed a tall glass of water set
(16:12):
out for me on the step of the side door. Ah,
it seemed like the perfect time for a break. I
sat down on the step and lifted the cool glass
to my lips. There were a few slices of cucumber
(16:35):
floating among the ice cubes, and it tasted so refreshing
and delicious. While I sipped, I looked across the driveway
at the house next door. They had two little boys,
(17:00):
well not so little anymore. They were growing fast in
my mind. The youngest was still riding in the stroller,
his big brother toddling beside as their dads took them
for a walk. But I knew he must now be
(17:23):
several years into elementary school, the oldest probably in middle school.
Their dog, a sweet golden Retriever named Clover, was stretched
out on her side on the back patio in the sun,
(17:44):
and even from where I sat, I could see the
slow rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed.
My glass of water finished, I set it down on
the step, pushed back up onto my feet, I reached
(18:06):
for the handle bar of the mower. In the front yard,
I repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen
branches and found one of Clover's frisbees among the Pacassandra.
I carried it to her fence and whistled for She
(18:32):
lifted her head to look at me, one ear flipped
inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth. I
showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet,
ready for me to throw it. I sent it out
(18:54):
toward the back edge of her yard, and she went
tearing after it. She didn't catch it mid air, she
wasn't that kind of dog, but she did dig it
out from where it landed near a lilac bush, and
carried it back to her patio with her tail happily
(19:17):
wagging along the way. Across the street, another neighbor was
fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter.
A new one shiny and red sat waiting on the
(19:39):
grass as she worked away with the screwdriver. Just like
the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, of
tugging at the pole cord of the moor, of green
tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun on a warm patio,
(20:03):
I knew the feeling of wrestling with a slightly rusted screw.
I restarted the mower and began to pace through the
front lawn, comforted by the moments my neighbors and I
all had in common. First mow of the year. I
(20:32):
stood outside the garage, my fingers reaching for the handle,
but looking over my shoulder into the back yard and beyond,
past the tree line that marked the yard next door,
(20:57):
at all the green growth and flowers that had shot
up and blossomed in the last week or so. We'd
slept with the windows cracked last night, and this morning
(21:18):
I had opened more, airing out the house. The staleness
of long cold months washed away in minutes. I wanted
to get outside as soon as I could, and looking
(21:40):
out from the kitchen window, I could see a day's
worth of chores waiting for me. The weather had been
warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on
any mowing or cutting back, waiting for all the little
(22:08):
critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few
meals first. It seemed like today might finally be the
day for it. I turned back to the garage and
(22:31):
gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a little
bend in my knees, and a strong push up on
the door to send it gliding into place. I'd thought
(22:54):
about getting an opener put on it, but there was
something about opening it by hand that I actually liked.
It was a very specific movement, one that was buried
deep in my muscle memory, from when I would hoist
(23:19):
open the garage door for my grandpa so he could
get his tractor out. The radially clatter of the old
door moving on its track, the gust of scent from
inside tools and dust and wood shavings, the way my
(23:48):
wrists knew how far to turn my knees, how much
to bend, And then inside the garage, neat peg boards
hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into place
(24:10):
and waiting for its next job. My own garage was
not quite as neat as his had been, but still
there was a sort of order to the chaos. I
(24:31):
stepped in and propped my hands on my hips, looking
around at the tools and stacks of pots. First things first,
I thought, and reached for a pair of garden gloves.
(24:53):
My thumb went right through a hole in the fabric,
and I laughed, recognizing the pair as one I'd bought
years before when I tilled my first garden. They were
(25:15):
cream with red dots that, if you looked close enough,
were distinguishable as ladybugs. I took them off and tucked
them into my back pocket, thinking that I could probably
(25:39):
fix them up with a needle and thread in a jiffy.
I found a second pair, this one without any terribly
large holes, and put them on. I wheeled my mower
(26:02):
out onto the sidewalk and shook out a lawn bag
beside it. From down the block, I heard the stuttering
start of some one else's mower and cupped my hand
over my eyes to shield out the sun and peer
(26:27):
through the yards. A few gardens over, my neighbor was
mowing the first path through his grass, and within a
second the scent of it hit me so green and lively.
(26:51):
I took a few deep breaths with my eyes closed
spring was really here, summer just behind in my own yard.
I started to trace back and forth, walking slowly with
(27:17):
my eyes on the ground. I picked up sticks and
pine cones, relocated rocks, and gathered a few scraps of
trash that the wind had blown in. When the grass
(27:39):
was clear, I started my own mower and pushed it
down the length of the yard. It reminded me suddenly
of my dad's green tennis shoes by the back door
when I was a kid. They hadn't started off as green,
(28:07):
but after a day behind the mower, they'd begun to
color with chlorophyll, and he'd given up trying to keep
the might. They'd just become his mowing shoes. I looked
(28:30):
down at my own pair and smiled. There was something
so small and simple, a shared experience of being a
grown up with chores. But it made me really happy.
(28:52):
This whole day dead. I made slow, even rose with
the mower. I'd raised the blade up a bit, so
I was giving the grass only a subtle hair cut.
(29:13):
My mind got quiet as I mowed, the steadiness of
my feet pacing along behind the wheels, the warm sun
on the back of my neck, the slow careful turn
(29:34):
at the end of a row, lining up the wheels,
and starting again. Was it so different from walking a labyrinth?
And didn't feel that different. I'd had a teacher once
who'd recommended a walking meditation. They'd suggested the best place
(30:02):
for it was a grocery store. Just get a cart
and walk the aisles as slowly as you can, notice
each step. That was me now. When the back yard
(30:30):
was done, I shut down the moor and began to
wheel it down the driveway to start in the front.
Just as a quiet thirst appeared in my throat, I
noticed a tall glass of water set out for me
(30:52):
on the step of the side door. Ah, it's seemed
the perfect time for upbreak. I sat down on the
step and lifted the cool glass to my lips. There
(31:13):
were a few slices of cucumber floating among the ice cubes,
and it tasted so refreshing and delicious. While I sipped,
I looked across the driveway at the house next door.
(31:35):
They had two little boys, well not so little anymore.
They were growing fast in my mind. The youngest was
still riding in the stroller, his big brother toddling beside
(31:58):
as their dads took them for a while, but I
knew he must now be several years into elementary school,
the oldest probably in middle school. Their dog, a sweet
Golden Retriever named Clover, was stretched out on her side
(32:23):
on their back patio in the sun, and even from
where I sat, I could see the slow rise and
fall of her ribs as she breathed. My glass of
water finished, I set it down on the step and
(32:46):
pushed back up on to my feet. I reached for
the handlebar of the mower in the front yard. I
repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen branches
(33:08):
and found one of Clover's frisbees among the pacissandra. I
carried it to her fence and whistled for her. She
lifted her head to look at me, one ear flipped
inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth. I
(33:35):
showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet,
ready for me to throw it. I sent it out
toward the back edge of her yard, and she went
tearing after it. She didn't catch it mid air, she
(33:58):
wasn't that kind of dog, but she did dig it
out from where it landed near a lilac bush. And
carried it back to her patio, with her tail happily
wagging along the way. Across the street, another neighbor was
(34:22):
fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter.
A new one, shiny and red, sat waiting on the
grass as she worked away with a screwdriver. Just like
(34:45):
the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, of
tugging at the pull cord of the mower, of green
tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun on a warm patio,
(35:07):
I knew that feeling of wrestling with a slightly rusted screw.
I restarted the mower and began to pace through the
front lawn, comforted by the moments my neighbors and I
(35:31):
had in common. Sweet dreams
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