And so my yard said unto me, “Go, ye forsaken skunk, for ye shall not tame me. Wasteth not your breath, for I shall not be conquered, or kept at bay. I am the Indomitable Yard. The one who rages in your nightmares like a wild hurricane. The one who can withstand any assault. The one who rises up like the Phoenix to retake what is rightfully mine. And you? You are just a small, sniveling man with a pair of dull pruning shears and a rusty shovel. Lowly wretch! Oh, and by the way: there’s an ant crawling on your neck. You might want to swat that off before … ulp … yep, it bit you. Man, you are just a total mess.”
This is what my yard said unto me. It hurt. Both the ant bite, but also the general tone of its voice. Its confidence. It’s arrogance.
“Ye shall not tame me!” Oh, how I shall try.
I’ve been trying. So many years of trying. We all have. Yards are a constant battle. An ongoing struggle between weeds and vines and mountains of swelling leaves that threaten to avalanche on our houses.
For most of us, our yards are the last throwback to a bygone era when we had to battle with Mother Nature for our very survival. And sometimes, even today, our survival still depends upon it. Like when my wife calls out, “have you figured out why the vine keeps growing up through the bathroom floor!?!” only I’m actually sitting on the sofa watching soccer.