My lawn (and I use the term advisedly) is an interesting place. There's some real grass, some crabgrass, some dandelions, some clover, a convention center of grubs, several holes from some kind of critter I've never actually met, and a bunch of crunchy leaves. I mow it when it gets embarrassingly high, and my theory is when you squint it looks green and that's good enough. I have mandevillas climbing up the wrought iron supports on my front porch from May through October. They are very low maintenance plants and quite dazzling. The pink trumpet flowers are still throwing out blossoms this close to Halloween, and as in dressing, once a woman reaches a certain age, it's all about distraction. People walk by and all they ever talk about are the pink flowers which are so pretty they look artificial. They live in pots on the porch and the stairs, and when the frost comes I cut them back, bring them into the cellar where I occasionally remember to water them over the winter. But this year I have a surprise.
Next to my front stairs a "green thing" has popped up. I didn't plant it, so it is probably a weed, but there it is, around the corner from the hydrangeas my father-in-law planted this summer in ninety-degree heat. It's not a giant dandelion. I have lots of experience with those. It has enormous green leaves and almost looks like a cabbage. Perhaps a passing squirrel planted it, or one of the mysterious and unseen critters from my lawn. It has become an object of fascination to me. I mow around it. I clear the leaves away. I want to see where this thing goes. There may be a flower someday before the first frost. Mostly it is a reminder for me to keep looking at the world for new things. So many days I am the prisoner of my chattering "monkey mind" that I don't see what's in front of me. Driving down the street, I sometimes ask myself how I got here, where the heck I am and where I am going. But until it blooms, dies, or takes over the city, my little green friend reminds me that there is still an awful lot about the planet I don't know, and I'm not through learning yet.
Next to my front stairs a "green thing" has popped up. I didn't plant it, so it is probably a weed, but there it is, around the corner from the hydrangeas my father-in-law planted this summer in ninety-degree heat. It's not a giant dandelion. I have lots of experience with those. It has enormous green leaves and almost looks like a cabbage. Perhaps a passing squirrel planted it, or one of the mysterious and unseen critters from my lawn. It has become an object of fascination to me. I mow around it. I clear the leaves away. I want to see where this thing goes. There may be a flower someday before the first frost. Mostly it is a reminder for me to keep looking at the world for new things. So many days I am the prisoner of my chattering "monkey mind" that I don't see what's in front of me. Driving down the street, I sometimes ask myself how I got here, where the heck I am and where I am going. But until it blooms, dies, or takes over the city, my little green friend reminds me that there is still an awful lot about the planet I don't know, and I'm not through learning yet.
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