Grass

     About a month and a half ago I purchased a riding lawn mower. I had never mowed a lawn in any capacity,but I was tired of paying someone to tend to my one acre lot. I felt exhilirated,enpowered and and a bit uncertain about tackling the seemingly never ending tufts of grass. I joked about becoming Hank Hill from the animated sitcom King of the Hill .He finds such delight in mowing his yard,among other things, and I wanted to find that Zen like state of mowing.
  Well what I found was it is hot, dirty, and try as I may I can't seem to get rid of the little mohawks I create as slice through the grass. I go back over the spunky patches so as to create a perfect lawn. Even more frustrating than the mohawks are the slopes and unpredictable dips in the hills that line my yard. After I mowed the first time ,I asked my dear friends, Sue and Phil, if there is a mechanism to keep me from toppling over when I mow paralell to the ground. Phil dryly told me that no such mechanism exist and I could be chopped up. Sue sweetly told me to be careful that her father lost a toe on a mower. Gulp. Good to know. So the next time I mowed I tried to take their advice to mow up the hill,back and forth. Or something like that.I wasn't  listening so well after I imagined a maimed extremity. As I moved up and down the hills I was terrified.I kept my foot affixed to the brake and created choppy patches. I gave up on perfection; fear had taken over.
  A couple weeks ago my neighbor across the street,a Cop who I have named in my head as Hank Hill based on his meticulous and skillful mowing skills, and his grandson assisted me with a  mechanical problem I had with my lawn mower. Okay,yes, I had something to do with the mechanical problem. Okay, I caused it.When my mower wouldn't start I went into panic mode and added oil. That should fix it,right? Well, as you may have guessed it only added to the problem. As soon as I saw the "magic oil trick" didn't work I told myself to calm down and think. I checked to make sure everything was as it should be,and sure enough I had neglected to put everything into the  proper mode the last time I mowed. I had absentmindly left the blade open,therefore the mower wouldn't start. I was elated to realize that I could still mow my lawn before dusk. 
      For twenty glorious feet my mower purred along. I dawned a big goofy grin on my face until the oil began to flood the engine. There was so much smoke I expected to see a genie appear. I turned the mower off  as smoke billowed from the engine in large gray heaps. I jumped far away from the smoky mess. No lucky three wishes.And apparently no common sense on my end. After about thirty minutes of reading the owner's manual and trying to find the proper tools for the square nut/bolt thingamagigees,I sat down in my yard in tears. How could I maintain my lawn, maintain my house,maintain all aspects of my life if I couldn't stop myself from panicing? On top of it all, I had moved my car into the backyard so I could mow my front yard perfectly. The mower was broken down in front entrance of the gate,thereby blocking my car.I called my dad for advice and he told me to put the mower in neutral and push. Once I did this I threw in the towel,or rather the cover of the mower, when the neighbor and his grandson emerged very calmly,almost as if they were approaching a crazed ,rabid animal, to offer assistance.Well  I gladly accepted the oil change and talked Hank's ear off. "How can I get rid of the mohawks?" "How can I mow the hills? " I talked a mile a minute, overjoyed and embararrassed at the same time.  He graciously answered my questions, divulged that he truly loves working with anything mechanical, and encouraged me to come ask him for help anytime. In other words,ask before doing something daft. He offered to mow the hills from now on. I eagerly accepted. He and his grandson,who continued to  look at me like I was some kind of rabbit on speed, went home and I was able to mow my yard for about fifteen minutes before darkness fell.
    I finished mowing the lawn the following day. I was relieved to have the help and still felt empowered that I was taking control of my lawn. Hank said it may take years for me to get into the flow of the lawn, but that one day I may be able to go to the zone. Today as I mowed I tried not to perseverate on the little patches of grass I missed. I did find myself in a kind of happy place. However, I did notice that my foot was still on the brake. I  tapped it frequently as I was losing control or gaining too much speed.
    I wonder what would happen if I could let my leg hang loose. I wonder if I could have enough faith in life that I could let go,if even during my mundane mowing adventures. Well, for a start I have let go of the idea of perfection. I have accepted help when others offered it. I have continued to trudge forward. I think I am beginning to feel comfortable in my beautiful imperfection. Maybe one day I will take my foot off the brake.

Below is a prelude to grass

A Child said, What is the grass by Walt Whitman

 
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.