the house hit critical mass last weekend, and i’ve been chipping away at the super spring cleaning ever since. i got the wild idea yesterday afternoon that before i clean the hell out of the floors, i should move the plants outside, being as how it’s FINALLY springtime (i.e., not snowing) and warm enough to get them out of the house.
whenever i have to move the plants inside in the fall, all of a sudden my house feels so crowded. POOF!! instant crazy jungle, more houseplants than at a crazy granola hippie lady’s. somehow, though, i get used to it a few weeks in, and then the process reverses in the spring when they go back out. the whole place looks so empty, so bereft of life. my little kitchen now looks like a sprawling palatial expanse of sand-colored tile.
so, last night, as the sun was setting, i weeded out the plethora of cracks between the slate pavers and arranged the monsterae and the aloes, and then came back inside to make dinner and catch ‘blood ties‘ (we love that, btw), and off to bed. this evening, when i got home from work, i relaxed out on the patio with my after-work snack and my new book, and got to enjoy the weather. i’ve decided that mature redbud trees are far more charming than flashy cherry trees. looking out over the slope of the little hill behind the house, watching the bees and the robins and the wind in the old-growth trees in the easement, i also remembered why i love my little house.
the lawnmower, though, that’s a different story. it’d been sitting there for nearly 6 months now, unused, the remaining gas in the tank and lines turning into something less combustible. when attempts to start it up were laughably futile, i had to make an unplanned run up to the gas station, wearing these tacky blue knit shorts that i otherwise wouldn’t be caught dead in. even after re-charging with fresh fuel, the mower was of course brutally stubborn. it would only run for a few moments before coughing to death, requiring infinite primes & pulls. my right shoulder will be so butch tomorrow. “i fucking hate you, lawnmower,” i snarled at the damn thing as i yanked on it for the 98th time, my former late-afternoon zen quite forgotten. as an added bonus, on the few seconds of run time i got out of it, it also sounded mighty charming, like a series of harsh little gunshots instead of a smoothly roaring motor. neighbors on both sides closed their windows in what i’m sure were utterly futile attempts to block out the racket. when all the water or air bubbles or whatever finally got worked out of the lines, though, i could finish that last half of the yard and move on to the front, and now the sense of satisfaction is directly proportional to the previous aggravation.
zen duly recovered, love affair with the weather and the yard and the patio restored, i’m going to hit the shower and off to sleep. happy spring, everyone.