I should really be mowing my lawn right now. That’s what I’ll lead with. There’s only so much time after the workday, and there is always something to be done. Dishes to be washed – laundry to fold. There’s always something to do. Wrap all of them up with a pretty bow and present it to the next 18-year-old leaving home. The freedom of adulthood demands sacrifice. Unless, of course, you’re fine with squaller.
But lawn mowing isn’t your average, necessary chore. No. Lawn mowing is agriculture for the suburban existence. A meaningless, tireless labor simply for the sake of manicured aesthetic. It is the relentless battle between plant and man. Men and women who, for decades, ceaselessly prevent these grasses from either seeding or dying. Trapping them in an endless purgatory of thumb-length monotony. We drain the rivers to prevent these plants from dying – and shear them weekly to tickle our lust for design. They are eternal, fickle, and hungry sheep. And we, the humans, shepherd them.
Last year my wife and I sent half our flock to slaughter. Our front lawn, having existed since the 1940s, was removed. I stood in our bay window as it happened. I could picture the ghosts of all the homeowners before me standing around like a crowd – looks of horror, pride, and awe upon their faces. The machine bit into the earth, finally releasing the vampiric grass of its bondage. Our dream of a “yarden” had begun.
Now, months later, we’ve a true work of art to show for it. Dozens of pollinator friendly plants have taken to flower along the curving pathways of our yarden. A new drip system has replaced the once guzzling sprinkler heads. Gravel provides drainage, and mulch protects new soil from the sun. A hinoki cypress sort of dangles in the corner. Slightly stooped, but in a handsome way - like Timothee Chalomet would be at a birthday party.
We’ve anemones, poppies, ranunculus, and alliums. We’ve planted goldenrod, lily-turf, viburnum, and aster. Our yarden, once a wasteland of zombie crop, now thrives with a budding society of happy plants. Happy plants that my daughter, now ten months and curious, explores with gusto. She particularly enjoys pointing at them from a perch upon my arm – our bumble queen bee of the yarden.
Yet, despite the renaissance revival of the yarden, another voice remains. I, the suburban shepherd, am still yoked with my backyard flock. I see them now as I write this. Grass. Green as ever and nearing their chance to seed. I know that, despite everything I have learned and the decisions i have made, I desire this grass. I desire a patch enough for my daughter to play in without splinters. I desire a crisp, clean edge, and thumb length blades to rest in as the summer sun brings its long and lazy days. So yes, I really should be mowing my lawn right now.
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