Anxiously engaged

My front yard right now looks horrible. And not just because it is the end of winter. 

There are tall dead stalks last year’s Russian Sage that didn’t get cut down. Last year’s Iris shoots didn’t get cleaned away in the fall. And not a single leaf that was trapped by the ground cover got thrown away. I got around to pulling out the dead petunia plants that looked so amazing in August, but their sad dead stems are strewn across the front yard grass instead of piled carefully away in a compost heap.  Every single time I park my car in the driveway and look over the patch of earth I call mine I shudder with embarrassment.

My mother’s garden is spectacular. Not just average, or nice, or pleasant…inspirational. And she works at it. Growing up Saturday was yard work day. She was up before dawn, garden shoes on feet and a wide brimmed hat overhead ready to take on the challenge. I’ve never seen someone work so hard or sweat so much while turning earth.  She and my dad instilled in me (and my sister I assume) not only a love of a beautiful yard, but the extreme value of being able to work hard. 

The current state of my front yard makes me feel that I’m not only disappointing my parent by squandering their lessons but also feels like a giant neon sign over my house saying “A lazy woman lives in here” with a big red arrow pointing down. 

Which is probably why my first thought at this beautiful 70 degree Denver day is not about bike riding or lemonade sipping or sandal wearing.

My first thought is, “will I have enough time between leaving work and going to my yoga class to rip all that crap out of the yard?”