Chase the Wind

Sitting on the wooden bench in the middle of my garden, I find myself thinking about all the energy I've wasted creating things that are just irrelevant.

I'm staring down at the flagstone rocks underneath my feet, each carefully placed, a mosaic of stones - with just enough dirt in between the pieces to inspire new life. My kids and I spent a whole weekend collecting the flagstone from our property. Working together, we carried them to the garden, then carefully laid and leveled each piece around the sizeable wooden garden boxes my husband built. Whenever I had a few extra minutes during the last year, I transplanted bits of moss in the mud amid the rocks in hopes that one day the moss would take over all the space between and form a seamless bed of green. I am about halfway to my goal.

I take a deep breath and fight the urge to scan the yard for a new piece of moss to transplant. There is something magical about starting my morning with dirty hands. But I know there is no use wasting more energy on such a task. My eyes land on the small tufts of grass fighting their way through the dirt. Normally, I would pull those as they pose a threat to my moss plan… but not today. Today I don't have the heart to do it. The grass can stay. It was all just meaningless anyway.

We are moving again, and I find myself worried that the new owners of this property won't keep this garden at all. And if they do, I wonder if they will understand how much work it was to build and fill those boxes, to level to garden and lay all the flagstone, to work for a year to transplant moss. Likely not. Likely they won't give any of this a second thought because it was all just meaningless anyway.

Now I know I need to get to work. The guilt and shame of procrastination are not enough inspiration to move me from my bench in the garden, and I stare off into space for only God knows how long before I finally have the energy to stand up.

I make it to my studio, only to find I'm locked out. "Of course, it's locked," I remind myself as I head back in to search for the keys. Locking the studio is another line item in an already list of long moving rules, I'm trying to get used to following. Soon I won't own the keys to this building anyways.

With keys in hand, I walk past the garden this time. I'm suppressing the current of 'utterly meaningless' thoughts attempting to race through my mind as I make my way into the studio. But in the end, I am not successful. Considering the circumstances, and the storm from this virus that is yet to hit, I'm not sure my work is any less meaningless than transplanting moss.

I stare off into space again. But then finally pick up a pencil and smear black on my hand for good measure.

I look down my pencil, which I've painstakingly sanded to the sharpest of points, and I say out loud as if speaking to us both, "Let's go chase the wind."