Can I Have Some Mow?

I love to mow the lawn. I find it unbelievably therapeutic and entertaining. While simply pushing a motorized blade across leaves of grass, I cleanse my mind by purging it of all that has bothered for the day and filling it with kinder things. Simultaneously, my body is engaged in semi-taxing work, dripping sweat and struggling against the weight of the machine.

When I begin to mow the lawn, I first must lay out how I will cut the grass. Occasionally, I put my name in the pattern. More often, I follow the shape of the yard in an ever small fashion, like a spiral. Mostly, I do exactly the opposite of this how to guide that I just read for the first time ever. Apparently, those who mow therapeutically mow wrong. 

Once I have decided the route I will take across, through, over, around, and beside our grass, I start musing on all the things that I like about myself. Really, I'm that arrogant. For example, today, I felt cool because I was all like mower-chic in my style:

1. tie dye t-shirt ( NOT like this tie-dye shirt )
2. cute blue shorts
3. highlighter colored shoes or chacos
4. neon sunglasses ( like this pair )
5. big, grumbly lawn mower
6. make-up ( dat foundation )
7. earrings
8. bandana

I knew all the men were like, "Why doesn't my wife or child mow the lawn and look that cute?" and all the women were like, "We can never compete." Children just want to be me. I am really okay with that because, well, I'm fantastic.

Once I've thoroughly complimented myself, I run through all the things I accomplished that day. More often than not, I realize I have pursued only earthly things. For example, today while doing ma thang, I was practically skipping because I had cleaned, I had walked, I had eaten well, I had taken care of an old person, I had made a friend, I was mowing the lawn, and...  then I hadn't taken any time for God. And suddenly, I could be so thankful because I had that time, outside noises literally drowned out, to meditate on God's provision and Word. 

But then a bug flew in my mouth and my longboarding cut, on the hand gripping the clutch,  opened up. So then I just started spluttering like my empty-of-gas mower. In those moments, when it seems my stomach is made of dirt and my eyes will never have whites again, I can't bear the foundation dripping over my eyebrows or the spitting rocks from the blades. I just want to stop. But I don't. 

And then I start a fire when the blades hit a particularly big rock and splash a spark onto the dry clippings. This is actually my life.