When I was a young boy, I would stand at the kitchen window in my house staring out towards the yard. I would watch intently as one of my siblings would mow the lawn. I remember having a great yearning to mow. I didn’t want to sit on the sidelines. The thought of working on the yard excited me. I was eager to trim the lawn. Seeing my desire, my parents allowed me to level the tall grass. They mentored me, giving me help and tips in difficult places. Soon it became my job to mow the beautiful grass on my own.
Not too long after I received my new responsibility, I lost the fire I once had for mowing. I mowed the yard twice a week, but it felt like every day. My heart sank as the grass continually grew. Yet all those tedious hours changed my views. I started looking at the grass from a new perspective. I wasn’t just mowing the grass, I was designing it. The boyish fire I once saw returned. I no longer saw it as a chore. I saw it as a large canvas waiting to be painted. I believe that mowing the grass isn’t work, it is art.
I have always admired the wonderful designs the groundskeepers put into the fields at the baseball stadiums. I study the creativity of the criss-cross patterns in the out field, amazed at the different shades of velvet green grass shining up at me. I then fix my gaze at the artwork that is enclosed by the dirt and bases. I am pleasantly surprised by a different cut into the grass of straight and curved lines. I make mental notes to myself on how I might imitate this on my lawn.
For the same reason I love visiting the golf courses and playing on the springy grass. I am filled with glee as I gaze out over the fairway noticing the different heights of the grass. Where I tee off for the hole, the grass is short, but it doesn’t compare to the green where the flag stands. Down on my hands and knees, I marvel at the thick grass, jealous at how meticulous it can be. The fairway features different lengths. The main is quite short, but resembles the fields at the baseball stadium. Surrounding the fairway there lays a strip of lawn, just a half an inch longer; then followed by the lush green ruff.
There is so much beauty in the grass of our lives. I can only describe a small portion of the art. Who ever knew a boy’s desire to work in the yard could cause such an admiration for just a simple lawn? This is a beauty that can never get old. It’s always changing, always growing, waiting, calling me to cut another beautiful design.
If you enjoyed this essay, please consider making a tax-deductible contribution to This I Believe, Inc.