The Zen of Lawn Mowing

I live in the country and (I don’t mean to brag, but) I have a huge yard. My husband Max used to be the official lawn mower. A few years ago, we had a patch of daisies grow free in the lawn. I loved the wild and pretty look of them and pointed them out to Max and asked him to mow around them. Max mowed around them one week and then the next week forgot. I was walking by the window and noticed he was headed straight for the daisies. I pounded on the window and shouted, “The daisies! Don’t mow the daisies! The daisies!” Max couldn’t hear me over the lawn mower, but the neighbors across the road heard me. I saw them look up from their gardening, point and smile. I’m sure I looked like a crazy woman, they were probably thinking, there goes that weird woman—again. I could either put a picket fence around the daisy patch (which would just be silly) or mow the yard myself. I choose the less ridiculous option and that was the start of my future as the new official lawn mower of the family. A strange thing happened; I discovered I love to mow. I know it might seem strange to some people, but I love the Zen of lawn mowing. It’s interrupted alone time and my form of meditation. Nobody asking for more juice or asking me to wipe his or her butt. I mow different designs into the grass; figure eights are my favorites. I think about life, make decisions and smile at the strange songs that are usually stuck in my head. Yesterday it was “Henry the Eighth.” Don’t be too quick to judge me; I’m happy and pretty much harmless.