What Is It With Lawns?

It's not that I don't appreciate a well-manicured lawn.

There is something lovely about a wide expanse of green grass that feels soft and cushy under your feet. In the spring, dandelions can create an impressive sea of yellow—although I know many people respond to this natural phenomenon with considerably less enthusiasm.

The dandelions, apparently, are winning.

As Kitty and I were outside today, I was pulling weeds—or, more accurately, pulling grass—from one of the garden rows we planted this summer. I noticed leaves, dried branches, and various other things scattered through the row.

Including a hose.

I asked Rob about it.

Rob has the all-important job of watering, and he insists on moving things to a new location every time he uses them. I have asked him about this many times over the years.

"Why do you keep putting the grass clippings, pulled weeds, branches, twigs, hoses, and garden tools in the garden rows?"

To me, the answer seems obvious.

I'm growing food.

Okay, in some cases herbs. But still. Everything is edible.

Rob's answer, now and then, has remained exactly the same:

"The lawn."

And so I return to my original question:

What is it with lawns?

I have heard stories—usually from men—about seeding and reseeding, watering, fertilizing, watching, battling wildlife, and going to extraordinary lengths to maintain the perfect lawn.

Then there are the lawnmowers.

The push mower.

The gas-powered mower.

The electric mower.

The riding mower.

The zero-turn mower—which sounds less like lawn care and more like a military maneuver.

And this year, I discovered an entirely new category:

The lawn mower with the best engine for lawn mower racing.

Really?

I keep coming back to food.

Actually, I keep coming back to something bigger.

I have shamanic practitioner homework to complete before I return to Scotland next month for another week of training. As I opened my sacred space recently, calling in the four cardinal directions and offering gratitude to Mother Earth for sustaining us and renewing what we give back to her, I looked out the window.

And I saw the fruit trees.

I thought about all the abundance here at The River Runs Through.

Fruit bushes.

Maple trees.

Pine trees.

Vegetables growing in the garden.

Grasses filling the fields.

I don't know if any of them could be milled into grain. I probably should find out.

But the abundance is here.

And suddenly I realized how much I had been taught to look elsewhere.

I grew up in the city. Our postage-stamp-sized yard was still a piece of land, but we didn't think of it as a place that could provide what we needed.

It held our house.

It held a swing set.

At one point, it held a pool that blew away in a storm. A larger-than-kiddie-pool pool, so this was a significant event.

There were barbecues.

And, as I recall, weeds.

Even when my brother and I spent summers in the country, we went to the farmers' market for fresh produce.

We did not look around and think:

We could grow food here.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that food came from somewhere else.

That what I needed was purchased.

That the land around me was primarily something to be maintained.

And now I look out at this place and wonder:

When did grass become more important than food?

And how did we become so disconnected from the land that sustains us that we began outsourcing our ability to feed ourselves?

I don't have a neat conclusion.

I still appreciate a beautiful lawn.

I also appreciate a garden row without a hose in it.

But I do wonder if part of our work—perhaps especially those of us trying to reconnect with the natural world—is to begin noticing what is already here.

The fruit tree.

The berry bush.

The maple.

The garden.

The wild grass.

The dandelion that, despite our best efforts, continues to show up every spring with the confidence of someone who knows they belong.

Maybe our relationship with the Earth was never actually gone.

Maybe we simply stopped paying attention.

And perhaps the first step toward remembering is to look around and ask:

What is already here?

Before we decide we need to buy it somewhere else.