Thought Control
I guess it’s true. Into each life a little rain must fall. Some fell into mine yesterday. Not the metaphorical sad kind. But the literal, real kind. I was sitting on the couch, resting, having taken a walk into downtown, when I looked out the window. And there it was rain. Heavy, too. No announcing thunder. Just a dark cloud full of water deciding it was time to let go. A nice surprise.
This morning there are gray clouds all around, the temperature is a temperate 75 and we’re only expecting a high of 91. Maybe it will feel like fall. I’m joking of course. That’s still hot and summer is the season. So, I will still try to do my work before noon. I need to mow the little tiff yard. I have a push mower to do that and there’s a shrub or two that needs trimming, although the wild flame leaf sumacs still look nice and tidy along the back fence.
I may also mow the remnants of the spring wildflowers in the front yard. Each year they escape their designated garden area and move up toward the house and the burr oak. That’s okay when it’s blooming bluebonnets, Indian blankets, and lemon beebalm, but they’re done, gone to seed and it’s time to tidy up. That thought is a holdover from my suburban days when you mowed and edged to gain the approbation of your neighbors. Now it’s just me to please. And mowing is a salve I apply to the urge to feel in control of a life, which sometimes feels like it’s gone to seed and is overrun with weeds.