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The Art of Zen-Lawnmowing

I get up with the fear that my children may be late for school. This is the only thing that prevents me from rolling over and resuming the dream that the alarm clock has rudely interrupted. It was such a peaceful dream.

A cool breeze tossed and lifted my hair as I ran down a hill and took to wings of flight. It is a recurring dream in my hit parade of a dozen or so. I will have it again, I’m sure. It is just that I never remember having made it to an ending. The alarm has always interrupted it. It would be my luck for the dream to end with me plummeting to my death like the ill-fated Icarus. Then when I awaken in a panic after the dream’s confusion it is to the realization that the airplane upon which I have been a passenger is spiraling uncontrollably to an imminent crash.

I don’t know why I dream about flying. I hate flying. Even when I was in the Air Force, I hated flying.

I digress.

Have I nodded off again? I shoot up from the bed, flinging the covers to one side or the other, whichever direction they want to fly and to whatever resting place gravity eventually assigns for them. I rush to awaken my children, infecting them with my panic.

“We are late. I’m sorry. I overslept!”

“Not again, Dad,” is the common complaint.

“I was up late, writing,” I use the truth as an excuse as I stand referee over the bathroom, allowing equal access and time, permitting my son to use my bathroom. It is not the first time that they have been late. I prepare bagels and cream cheese to eat on the way school and hastily make their lunches. When they are dressed we hurry into the Jeep.

The children and I are off to school, having missed their bus yet again. Breaking speed limits, I get them there just in the nick of time. Then, slipping out of the panic mode, I stop by the convenience store for a soda.

By the time that I return home the sun has fully risen to illuminate my small almost insignificant parcel of the world. Suddenly I remember that today was the day that I promised to mow the lawn.

It does no good to ignore it. I have tried to convince myself that eventually if let be, it would grow so tall that it would stop growing. Of course that would far exceed the community standards. The home owner’s association would protest and levy fines and do all sorts of wicked things to preserve their sacred property values.

I could have let it die, but who wants to live in a house surrounded by a brown yard…or white gravel for that matter. The only part of the covenants of the homeowner’s association that I really agree with is that no one can turn their yard into a white gravel paradise.

Alas, I have to mow it, knowing full well it will take at least a whole hour to accomplish the task. As this is one of the most mundane tasks a man can possibly do, it is the source of frequent and self-renewed dread. It is the worst hour of my life.

I engage in the ritual filling of the gas tank. Afterwards I check the oil. As I have broken a sweat already, I rest and recompose while I make sure the blades are still attached to the bottom of the mower. I take deep cleansing breaths, releasing them slowly to reach a near trance-like state as I perpetuate my pseudo-productive procrastination. Then only as a last resort I make sure that the engine still starts. If there is unsatisfactory result in the ritual blessing of the mowing equipment, I have the perfect excuse to delay the mowing to yet another day.

As is the usual case, everything is in fine working order and unfortunately without further excuse or delay, I must now mow the lawn. At this point, my trance has attained a Zen-like state, so that while I am mechanically performing the routines of back and forth, turning at this end or that, I can direct my mind to think of anything else, pushing the excruciating agony of mowing the lawn to the darkest recesses of mind where good thoughts cannot exist as memories while I engage in a self-hypnosis that I am doing anything else but expressing the instant in a physically demanding endeavor.

Gratefully, the process of the Zen-lawnmowing usually does not significantly damage ornamentals, so I do not have to resort to the art of seeking the nirvana of suitab;e plant replacements. If the lawn has been sufficiently prepared in advance* there are effective borders to barricade flowerbeds and sensitive shrubbery from an inadvertent, errant overrun or turn.

E

*see ‘The Art of Zen-Landscape Design’ for further instruction.

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posted by Unknown @ 8:07 PM