The Zen of Lawn Mowing

I hate mowing my lawn. And I love it too. It is the classic conflict of the ages, dressed in modern technology and fueled by neighborhood ordinances which, regardless of how I might feel, state that the lawn must be kept mowed.

Let me first explain that the object of my love/hate relationship is not a riding lawnmower, which 95% of my neighbors use (those who don’t subscribe to a lawn service, that is). It is instead a self-propelled walk-behind type, bought 15 years ago when the house was first built and, despite a few quirks, still runs great. Unable to justify replacing something that isn’t broken, I have instead forced myself into ever greater familiarity with my mechanical beastie, growing my contempt for it as I walk behind it and listen to it growling purposefully away.

Still I have to give my nemesis credit. It does make me get out and get some exercise (it takes me an hour to mow our yard), uses less fuel than those owned by our neighbors, and is cheaper than a membership to a health club. That is part of the basis for my love of it I suppose. I seem to need such motivation to exercise any more, and the knowledge that I’m not only friendlier to my environment but pinching pennies while I’m improving my health does seem to assuage my feelings of resentment.

But the main component of the love part in my relationship with lawn mowing is the meditative trance that takes hold as I’m fulfilling my neighborly obligations. Under the hypnotic white-noise of the engine, I become unusually attuned not only to my surroundings but the marvelous way my mind works, and for awhile, I can revel in and listen to my brain’s complexity as it multitasks on several levels. “10 more passes to finish this section.” (Wonder if my son will remember to meet me in front of the office today?) “The turn at this point is getting too sharp; time to change up the pattern.” (I can really spice up my story if I take this avenue). “Need to attend to that Creeping Charlie again.” (Should start seeing this year’s fawns soon). “Watch it – there’s a toad trying to get outta the way!”

Yet, despite all that, I still hate lawn mowing. I hate feeling like I’m getting cooked to the core by the sun (and yes, I do stick to mowing as early in the day as those darn ordinances will permit). I hate the gritty, sweaty, bile-filled creature I inevitably turn into afterwards when I’ve completed my chore (thank goodness for long cool showers). Most of all I hate the demands mowing makes on my time. The pressure that builds and builds inside me when more than a week has gone by since the last mowing is absolutely inescapable, however, and, worse, a killer of my creative juices. If I wish to make progress on my writing projects, I have no recourse but to get up and attend to the matter. Otherwise, my muse is forever held hostage.

But to learn more about one’s own inner workings… Well, I have to admit, that is priceless in its way. Too, to have lawn mowing help me straighten out a story line, or to even provide me a story to write – which, as this entry proves, it has – is a reward that even a crotchety skeptic like me has to acknowledge.

Still, it isn’t enough to cure me of my hate of this ordinary, physically taxing task, which means that the love/hate relationship will always be there, I’m afraid. But at least it is tempered by the knowledge of all that I gain - that is, until either those pesky ordinances change, or I break down and persuade my husband to invest in a riding lawn mower.