A new perspective revealed itself from paths traveled daily.
Something showed through the uncut grass and garden in the light of a rising sun.
I should quit thinking and mow the damn lawn.
It depends. What time will I finish at the orchard? How will I feel after interacting with locals for a shift? Will the press of decaying produce draw me into the kitchen again? How guilty will I feel about letting grass grow long?
So much depends. If conditions are right — temperatures moderate, weather dry, and a couple hours of remaining daylight — I may mount the John Deere and make a first pass. The lawn is so long it will take at least two.
So much depends upon weather, capacity for work, and a will to sustain our lives in a turbulent world.
I looked up and saw the vanishing point through the middle of my garden for the first time in 23 years this has been our home.
It has been there all along, the work of the farmer who subdivided his homestead, the surveyors who platted the lots, and the home builders who positioned structures according to convention and restrictive covenants recorded at the county administration building. I played my part unintentionally by positioning my garden in the southeast corner of our lot.
It was hard to miss.
Yet it was there. I walked into it and am still here.