Avoiding Re-Entry

I have been writing steadily. I promise. Just not here.

Obviously.

Do you know what I hate? When people promise to write/create/post more. If one wanted to post more wouldn’t one already be doing it? But then, if one suddenly reappears in a certain space that hasn’t been attended to for a while, shouldn’t there be a reestablishment of the unstated contract? A negotiation of terms? If you show up, I will…

I suppose, but, you see, I am extraordinarily bad at transitions. Entrances and exits are too much.

So, I promise not to promise to write more, if you promise not to notice that I am writing (here) again.

Sunday or Monday (who can remember those things) I mowed two strips of my lawn super short. I can see them through the window. They lie parallel to our suburban privacy fence and, exactly, one lawnmower width from my vegetable garden. You see, I am going to plant a new garden bed, and the first step after such a rash decision is to begin the process of removing what is in the way. Which is, in this case, some mixture of clover, weeds, and grass.

What will happen in this space? What will foment in that soil? What epic battles will I wage on that eighty inch swath?

I have no idea.

But, if one makes such a move, one must intend to be here to find out. I am finding that I am growing fond of this dirt. It is feeling like my place. I can feel the pieces of myself settling into the rhythm of this ground, and I am grateful. It isn’t as quiet or shady as I had imagined my place would be, but mostly that is my fault. I keep hauling in children and dogs and seeds. Here! See this place! It is full enough for all of us!

I bagged up the grass clippings from the rest of the yard and started piling them on the shorn ground. They should call in the worms to begin the process of making the ground fit to use. Soon I will drag my compost bin over and enlist the help of our eggshells and apple cores. A shaven patch of ground is a tremendous thing. Full of possibility. Although tidy rows is probably not among them. Certainly not tidy AND labeled. It would wreck the surprise. And I love very slow, very quiet surprises.

So, here I am with a whole new patch of ground. Fall is closing in. There are hints of red in the maples. Something is trembling on the verge. Oh! let us tumble headlong into the not yet with no regard for winter! Let us consider seeds without faltering. Let us ponder the harvest with outrageous optimism. Just for today.

Do you know what else I have done? I have created a new folder on my computer, and labeled it “Fiction.”