 My driveway garden is weed free for the first time in fifteen years. I hate weeding, and do it in fits and starts, grudgingly, then I let the little weed piles dry up and get run over until they turn into dirt on the pavement. After a rain, when the roots pull out so nicely, I’ll persevere a little longer, but it hurts my back, my hamstrings ache, and I get irritated at all the broken off, rootless bits. Last night I drank two glasses of wine with dinner, which is all it takes to…elevate me, shall we say. Happily anaesthetized, I impulsively headed out into the cool evening air and resumed my attack on a giant, 8-year-old weedbed, the kind that requires a shovel and lots of sifting. It was awesome! Pain, frustration, blackflies, all felt pleasantly irrelevant. I floated above it all. In celebration I mulched today (sober), completing my COVID garden triumph. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 269: 155 words, TOTAL = 45,612; 14,388 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
March 2021
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