Lawn love ...

You know you’re getting old when you take a deep interest in your lawn.

Recently I have come to love my lawn or more accurately my sweetie's lawn ... a long story. I sort of own another lawn but that's an even longer story about choices made ... been there, done that. Anyway this lawn, of which I speak, has become "the lawn". I didn't love the lawn right out of the gate, I mean it's a lawn for goodness sake; it's made of grasses, likely not indigenous, and the odd weeds, likely very indigenous. But over time I've fallen for the lawn and the lawn and me seem to spend a lot of quality time together.

The lawn beckons me daily to march its perimeter, ensuring that it is clear of unwanted intrusions; cigarette butts, bits of paper, the odd Timmy-cup left behind by some coffee swilling cretin, and of course the greatest insult ... doggie doo. Now I have nothing against dogs, a dog’s gotta doo what a dog’s gotta doo. In fact, I love dogs. But I'm less than enamoured with dog owners who seem to feel that the world is their puppy's toilet and that someone else besides them should do the flushing. They sort of remind me of people who hold strong opinions but do nothing tangible with them. Blah, blah, blah ... if I could I would but I'm too busy shooting my mouth off right now to solve world hunger. Okay, maybe I resemble that remark from time to time. But I am doing something with my lawn.

Now doubtlessly there are those of you out there who will protest that my lawn nurturing is nothing more than me doing what is expected by "the man", others might argue that I'm perpetrating some horror on the environment, or worse that I'm acting on some self absorbed one-up-manship, gloating over my lawn challenged neighbours. To you and all of your well meaning and articulated arguments, I salute ... you're probably right, I'm a lawn toady. I didn't start out that way, really. I was once lawn ambivalent. Lawn equalled chore. Chore equalled me not doing something really important like sitting, quietly, for long periods of time. I should have called it meditating and I would have lived guiltlessly, but it was really just sitting. But living life changes you and now I'm a servant to my lawn.

Some people don't like the idea of being a servant. Servant equals servile, and well we can't have that. I once suggested to people I work with that we could approach delivering a new service as "servant-facilitators", working towards improvement by serving the interests of others. They were horrified. "You can't use the word servant," they protested, "people will take advantage of you, and it’s demeaning!" So I suggested "consultants", they went apoplectic. There's just no satisfying some people.

Anyway, I serve my lawn; I feed it, water it, weed it (by hand) ...and I now use the word Dandelion as an expletive. Neighbours have taken to remarking on my lawn ... although I suspect a number curse me as I've seen them goaded into spending more time pampering their green space, no doubt shamed from the TV by an envious partner. Now my lawn isn't quite a golf course, but we're working on it; my lawn and me.

Maybe the lawn is a metaphor for my changing attitude of self ... from knight to squire. Not that anyone else fancied me a knight, but I certainly felt that I was more than perhaps I really was ... but life, like water seeks balance. Now the idea of being a servant doesn't frighten me. I'm not a titan of industry; I'm no longer concerned about the size of my office or whether people hang on my every word. I just want a happy, healthy lawn, which I can walk barefoot on without finding Fido’s surprise.