Wednesday, May 21, 2014
This evening was primarily spent cutting the grass. Long and succulent from many days of rain, it had to happen. I approached this as if it was some Zen exercise where the mower (a Flymo) neither moves nor flies but the grass, obedient as ever to the demands of so strange a universe slides silently under the punishing blades sacrificing itself in a selfless act so that the garden might be soft, serene, green and enjoyed by all the visiting birds and animals once again. We dance together as if in a trance. We dance that slow, green tinged eternal waltz and draw patterns, curves and spirals across the soothing, feverishly growing and now tamed world.The motor hums along to the lost bees' own tunes and flecks of fading sunshine and slivers of light cascade in a rainbow of celebration and managed harmony. Man, machine, nature and the late and warm spring evening, a perfect combination. Then I chuck the grass over the dyke and grab a cold beer.