There is something about coming home. At least this version of home. I drive around, wondering if a building or a sign or a landmark will draw me back. It doesn’t. Stop driving! Having been a corporate gypsy for most of my adult life, “home” is where I make it, if you will.
With each move there was a promise of something better, something greener. It’s not that the proverbial grass wasn’t green enough in the places before. Maybe just a restlessness. The idea of staying somewhere, anywhere, just didn’t appeal to me for the better part of thirty years. But seven years into the most unlikely of places, in a little village in North Carolina, I am finding I sort of belong. But that’s just it…it’s not the place.
It’s the grass, you see.
After building my house in Nashville I decided to to sod the back forty. The sod guys showed up and we placed the squares of turf in rows along the big hill and down to the flatter ground by the deck. After staking in the last piece, Eric (sod guy) pulled me aside and offered his Kentucky Fescue wisdom.
“Okay sir…let’s get some water on this right away.” I said okay and turned to head for the garage to grab sprinklers and hoses. He grabbed me by the arm and said, “I need ya to listen to me for a minute.” His tone was serious.
“Now let’s get water on this now. And after you’ve watered it, WATER IT AGAIN.”
I said, “Okay, got it.”
He never released my arm and his voice got a little louder, almost paternal.
“And THEN, after you’ve watered it again, WATER IT AGAIN.” I complied.
It grew and flourished and coloured the scape of my little slice of the Tennessee hills. I had to mow it, weed it from time to time, feed it, and give it drink when rain was on hiatus. I loved that damned grass.
I am seeing that it isn’t about the real estate. My “turf” is made up of these blades of grass that are deeply human. In this metaphorical overflow there is a point here. I find myself comfortably placed among a few others on a small piece of this planet. Growing together. My family of new. The very sight of them brings a smile. They are there in joy and crisis and in the mundane. I was lucky enough to be aware when we met…opening the opportunity to be known and loved and treasured by them, and them by me. These few who make this life full again. It doesn’t matter the state or the city or the hill. I am here with them. It is where I choose to be and I choose because I grow well.
Giving thanks for the dear ones in my life. I’ll keep watering.
One thought on “The Thing About Grass…”
Fabulous, as I am in the middle of my move. I sat down and feeling a bit overwhelmed picked up my iPhone to check my emails.
There is front of me was your blog. Just what I needed…. A little reassurance that if I keep on watering life will continue to bloom. Thank you for your words of wisdom.