Yesterday I cut the grass. Literally. With scissors.
I returned home after being away for most of the last three months to find my wee yard a tiny verdant jungle full of butterflies and happy, buzzing bees. A few things had burned to a crisp, but the small patch of grass had grown way too high for my makeshift lawnmower to cut.
Plus it had encroached into the flowerbed and I didn’t want to risk cutting any cherished blossoms.
And so I spent the afternoon sitting contentedly on a folded towel, slowly cutting the grass one snip at a time. This is what I discovered.
I loved it. Not that I want to cut my grass every time this way, but spending the time sitting and slowly cutting became very meditative. I allowed my mind to wander and daydream, something I don’t do often enough these days. Sometimes doing almost nothing is exactly what one needs.
I felt like a child again. How often do you just sit on the grass, barely doing anything? Not reading a book. Not weeding. Not making lists or even thinking of making lists.
Instead, I felt the ground beneath me. I watched a yellow butterfly dance amongst the lavender. I listened to the bees. I moved an earthworm to safer territory.
I pretended I was cutting hair. I talked to the hydrangea like we were best friends. I swept the flagstones with my hands, softly brushing the grass clippings together like I was nine-years old playing house.
I slowed down. I stopped doing and became a human Being