mowing the "lawn"

I have never loved mowing the lawn.

It's something that I usually do grudgingly when visiting mom in Scarborough.

So, when I was informed that part of my job description in Avispea would be to occasionally help out with this task, my smile of aqcuiecence was somewhat less than genuine. 

...When the day finally arrived, I resolved to get it over with as quickly as possible. "From the road to the house? no problem. (Then I'm done, right?)" Pilvi's response was yes, technically, but that I probably wouldn't get all the way to the house by myself. In my loud Canadian way, I immediately disagreed. Don't worry, I said, I'll have this done in a jiffy.

Over an hour later I had barely made a dent. In fact, it took nearly 3 gas tanks and nine hours to make it all the way to the house, not to mention a ton of water breaks.

...Strangely, though, each time I mow the lawn, I enjoy it more. Every time the gas tank empties, I sit on the step in stunned silence, marvelling at the flatness of the lawn I've finished and looking with fear at all the individual blades of grass I have yet to mow, (partly, wondering why we bother clipping and manicuring God's greenery anyway, when it grows back with mocking vengeance in a few short days). 

It's also a zen thing: one's mind slows down in a unique way when one's body is working for hours on end at a mundane and repetitive task. 

Consequently, if anyone offers to finish the lawn for me, I stubbornly refuse. Conquering this grass has become a point of honour. And it's a terrific workout.

...actually, I have yet to finish whole thing by myself. But, despite hands that vibrate for hours afterwards, spots in front of my eyes, intense dehydration, aching biceps, and calluses on my hands, I will persevere. I will mow the "lawn" all by myself before leaving this place.