Yesterday, I worked in my yard. I pulled weeds. I gathered branches and sticks knocked down and strewn across my yard by recent storms. I tugged and pulled and cut and clawed at a stubborn honeysuckle bush that I still can’t bear to dig up, even though it has long overstayed its welcome.
As the sweat poured down my chest and my muscles began to tire, tears began to stream down my face. With each yank of the bramble, they flowed nearly in rhythm with the beat of cicadas and current of the lake tide at the edge of my blurry view. And I cried.
I cried for the years already gone by, mistakes I have made, loves I have lost. From my eyes came the sadness of unappreciated moments with my children while they were young, and from the heaves of my chest came the regrets of love left unspoken and harsh words regretted.
The birds chirped on, and the hot breeze continued to blow, and years of dead leaves and underbrush of honeysuckle slowly began to disappear. The ground below, now bare and scarred, became alive with ants and earthworms considering their opportunities.
My tears came more slowly. My breath came more easily. I rose from the dirt, my knees crusted with mud and my gloves torn and stained, and scanned the hillside, now sculptured and pruned and intentional.
This is a new house, a new home, a new life, a new chance.
Yesterday, I worked in my yard.