Two solutions for the thumb-tip-sized acorns with needle-like points that adorn our lawn are being considered: a leaf vacuum or a long-handled circular paint roller-looking thing. Whatever I choose, my bare feet will be the judge of the device’s effectiveness.
At my new favorite spot—legs outstretched on the front porch couch—I tune in to the station of to-dos. A wreath with plastic berries and mushrooms, whose cuteness I couldn’t resist, is waiting for a door hanger. The empty space between the back of the porch and the railing calls for a four- to six-foot large-leafed plant. Something tropical, like what you’d see at a fancy hotel or yoga studio in the Bahamas.
In picking plants, bushes, and trees for the yard, I’m overwhelmed. I’ve never started from scratch before. What’s helping me avoid paralysis from choice overload is knowing I can transplant what I want and buy more in phase two. I just made up “phase two” to take the pressure off this step, but it’s working.
Between paragraphs, I heard a noise that bumped my heart rate up by a good twenty beats. It sounded like a large (think hand-sized!) bug caught in an electric fence or, worse, a rattlesnake slithering up the stairs to hunt me down. Five seconds later, my overactive imagination burst like a bubble. It was just the sprinkler system kicking on, pushing out the air in the pipes.
And now comes the part I’m worst at: endings. Honestly, wrapping up posts is my kryptonite. But maybe it’s okay to leave it here, imperfect and open-ended, like the plants I’ll move around tomorrow or the acorns still waiting for judgment from my bare feet. After all, the best things don’t always need a perfect ending.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 