Taking Back the Land

Uprooted, against its will, without explanation. It used to be a vibrant lawn, nurtured by expansive sunlight, generously watered by irrigation. Until the backhoe came, killing every healthy blade, piling it all in a heap at the edge of the fencing, and leaving it there with the typical sign, “Free Dirt.”

They had no choice. Change was coming. Change had already arrived.

Heavy trucks rolled across the dusty remains, adding insult to injury. Then, like the aftermath of an uncoordinated parade, hundreds of footprints packed down the unruly dirt. Soon, expansive windows in a new house—whose build was the cause for all this demolition—stared out blankly at a wide expanse of brown nothingness.

So much for curb appeal.

It looked as though nothing would ever grow there again. She could relate to the injury suffered by the land, its only crime being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She pondered replacing the yard with a carpet of fake grass to bring color back again, but quickly ditched the idea. It seemed like the equivalent of stretching a giant green Band-Aid over the wound. How about xeriscape? She could just swap out a luxurious lawn for a mass of heavy, unimaginative gravel. Or maybe a fence would hide the annihilation. That wouldn’t change the view from the inside, though. The earth was damaged. There was no getting around this bare fact. She saw it every time she sat at the desk and looked outside at the Desolation of Smaug. 

This was her fault. In an organic way, it felt like her life.

What this injury called for made her let out a long, deep sigh. The inevitable answer to all of life’s dilemmas. As boring as the brown earth outside her window.

Time.

It was going to take some time. And patience. She'd just have to wait. Day after day, week after week. it was like watching . . . grass grow.

“It’ll come back, Mom,” her gifted gardener assured her. “See the edge of the irrigation flow?”  A dark outline from the previous day’s flooding marked the boundaries of a someday front yard. “Just as soon as it starts getting hot, the Bermuda will take over. It always does.”

Just as soon as it gets hot. So weird. When she stood outside in summer, she thought she'd self-combust. When Bermuda feels the heat, it resurrects. Slowly creeping along, the determined seeds hidden in the bulldozed dirt would germinate—die—only to come back to life again. The march of green was unstoppable, a showy display of survival in catastrophe's void.

Six weeks later as she sat at her desk and stared once more through the huge window, she realized with surprise that her daughter had been right. No longer did the front yard resemble the moon’s surface. As summer did what summer does, the Bermuda responded like an army. Outfitted in green fatigues, the troops spread out across two-thirds of the once barren landscape, determined to take back stolen territory. It had already encircled another survivor—an Ash tree once diseased and cut down, its stump exploded now with dozens of healthy shoots, each vying to replace the life that once was.

The life that once was.

An annihilated tree in the throes of rebirth. A devastated lawn reclaiming its identity. A shattered heart watching in fascination from her front row seat at the window, waiting for hope to restore her soul. 

You can’t stop life. The landscape may change, but immortal seeds remain - there beneath the surface, anxious to be revealed and get back to the business of living. You will live again, too, she bravely reminds herself. Let your tears soften the grains of grief. The life within will surface and take over. It always does.  

She knows the rest.  

It’s just going to take some time.

With thanks to SoulRider.222 for permission to use the terrific photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: green shadow army | 3/13/10. Canon Rebel XTi. Canon EF-S. Ca… | Flickr