This is one of my la-la-la posts. It won't be peppered with anger about racism or shitty public education. Or marriage and taxes. All that is the background noise of life today. (My NSA listener must be bored to death. It's not like 2005 when in the middle of a phone conversation with a friend I'd gratuitously burp Fuck Bush and then continue with my conversation.) What I wanted to mention is that for the first time in my life since I started to garden I hired someone to do some of the work. The simple fact that somebody else's arms and shoulders were digging holes and turning soil and pulling bushes out by the roots seemed to inspire me. I realized then as I watched J. work in the rain that the dread of going down on my knees was keeping me from turning the front yard (my patch) into a grass-free oasis instead of the weed factory farm it has been since the snow melted.
You may think that you are 30 but your knees and hips will tell you otherwise. Now if I want certain kinds of physical work done I'll have to pay for it; either in cash or aching muscles. Now that I think about it did Michaelangelo get winched up to the Sistine Chapel ceiling every morning after a mint latté? Don't think so.
You may think that you are 30 but your knees and hips will tell you otherwise. Now if I want certain kinds of physical work done I'll have to pay for it; either in cash or aching muscles. Now that I think about it did Michaelangelo get winched up to the Sistine Chapel ceiling every morning after a mint latté? Don't think so.
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