raking leaves...

I just got finished raking about a third of the grounds. It took me almost as long as it used to take me to do the whole property ten years ago. I'm not moving as fast as I used to, I guess. I think that's less do to age than it is to do with a different attitude toward that particular task, now that I'm a bit older. I used to attack that task as a necessary evil when I was younger, something that got in the way of doing other things, time wasted, energy wasted. I'd stew over things while I raked, getting into a bad mood that made the job seem longer and harder than it really was. As I've gotten older, though, it's become an opportunity for me to get outside, spend some time with the Autumn sun on my back and the breeze in my face. I'm a little more wont to observe things when I rake, stopping to look at the swelling hips in the rose hedges, wondering what's living in that new little hole on the edge of the kitchen garden, listening to the birds and the bugs while I casually rake away. I now look around the grounds and see how much I've accomplished with my old rake, rather than looking at what still needs to be done. Right now, the lawn is clean and the grass, which really needs another mowing, is laying in a pattern that traces where and how I raked. By tomorrow morning, it will probably be covered again and I'll probably go out and rake some more, but not with any urgency or haste. I've realized it's not a contest, it's just one more thing that you do in life because it needs to be done and it's fun to do. I might even chance burning a small pile tomorrow, rather than carting them away to the huge, ever evolving pile that borders one side of the wooded lot in back, my wild compost pile that takes care of itself. I miss the smell of burning leaves. When I was a kid, there was an old fellow who lived down the road who would rake piles of Sycamore leaves into the dirt road, light them up and stand there, resting his hands and his chin on the handle of his rake and just watch them burn. When I'd smell them, I'd wander down there to say hi and enjoy that special time with him. He was very old and always wore bib overalls and a green cap, both threadbare and stained, more a part of him than just clothing. He'd always say, "hey, there, young fella", and that was about it. I'd sit on his front lawn and watch the curls of smoke and bask in that delightful odor, while he'd just stand there, absorbed in his own thoughts. I didn't intrude. I guess I'm getting to be a bit like him. As I get closer to the end of my times, I make more of my times. I think I learned a lot from him, even though we hardly ever talked.


sow what you will...