There’s no need to talk
about it, because the truth of what one says lies in what one does. Bernhard
Schlink, The Reader
Our yard is full of rocks. Not just any old rocks, though.
They’re red lava rocks; leftovers from an era where someone thought they would
make a grand landscaping material.
“You never have to weed rocks,” I’m sure the person said to
themselves. I doubt they would have said it to anyone else as that is about the
dumbest thing one could say in a world as seedy as our own.
They tried to turn their opinion into a reality by laying out
landscaping fabric first – to keep the weeds down – and then applying a layer
of rocks atop the fabric. The goal was to create an environment that would be
fun to look at and require little to no maintenance.
“Oh what fools these mortals be,” said Shakespeare’s Puck.
Weeds have no trouble working their way up through the
fabric – far easier than fingers working their way down through the rocks to get
to the roots – which are well-protected by both the rocks and fabric (through
which fingers cannot penetrate, unless said fingers have a poking device to
tear the fabric open to get to the roots which then results in an easier
assault of new roots coming up through new chinks in the armor).
Because our house sits on a hill, I find our rocks don’t
like to stay in place. One would think lava rocks, which are quite rough and
frictional on the outside, would stay put, but they’d be wrong. These stones
are constantly shifting (presumably to get a better view of the hills across
the valley – maybe looking for the quarry which gave them birth). They have an
instinct where, like lemmings, they seek some cliff off of which they may hurl
themselves to oblivion.
Our “cliff” is a scalloped wall of bricks that line the
flower beds, protecting the lawn from the incursion of a basalt army seeking
greener pastures. Most rocks stay put (I’d say those are the gneiss ones), but
there are a few hardy souls that make the leap each night. So before I mow the
lawn each week, I must explore the verge looking for those runaway rapscallions
and putting them back to bed.
It’s strange how we humans are always trying to make life
easier and end up complicating it beyond all reason. We plant grass for reasons
which elude me – devoting time and energy to watering, fertilizing, and mowing
it ad nauseam. We Americans seem to be addicted to work, don’t we?
I recall learning from my college Anthropology classes that
ancient peoples often spent up to ten hours per week laboring (hunting,
fishing, and gathering), and it was to these kinds of people God said, “You
need to take a day off each week – let’s call it the Sabbath.” At that rate, we
should be Sabbathing every other day according to my estimations! Where on
earth did we get to thinking a forty hour work week was normal (let alone
healthy)?
I may wish life were simpler and less demanding. However, as
a neighbor once said in response to my wishful thinking: “Spit in one hand,
wish in the other, and see which fills up first.”
Life is what it is, so we do what is necessary to make as
pleasant an experience of it as we can. We water, fertilize, mow, and move
rocks. Is that such a bad thing?
Maybe our love of labor is genetic. Maybe we don’t believe
we have value unless we are producing something.
I know that I would rather be up and doing something rather
than sitting in front of the television all day long. I find it isn’t the labor,
per se, that attracts me, or the productivity, strictly speaking, but being
creative. I may complain about yardwork, but in reality, I enjoy creating a
pleasant space and doing what I can to beautify our neighborhood.
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