Jon and I went to our new house today to mow the grass and water the plants.  I continue to be amazed at how comfortable I feel in this new house even though we have yet to move in to it and I have never liked change too much.  I will miss our old home tremendously, especially on those nights that I wake up and go downstairs to make a bowl of ice cream and my familiar kitchen island is not standing before me or my basement door with the kitty escape carved in it is missing or my old wooden table where I write and read is no where in sight.

But, I will soon create new rooms to love and different items to cherish.  Nevertheless, I diverge… back to the mowing and watering….  I thought the new yard would be a challenge to mow but it only takes me an extra 5 or 10 minutes to finish.  The true challenge is all of the flowers and plants and vegetables growing around the yard.  They present a much more difficult challenge for me and my non-green thumb.  I am starting off easy – merely trying to water all of these living creatures.  It would be a fairly easy task if I didn’t get antsy after standing still for two minutes.   I figure someone has a plan for me to slow down and “smell the roses” and so they bestowed this large garden on me.  I will learn to breathe and take in the moment somehow, someway. 

And that I did.  I stood over the hostas and showered them with water.  They glistened.  I moved to the hydrangea and the tomato plants and to some fuzzy looking tall purple flowers.  They perked up.  And then I got to the pink rose bush, and I felt like someone laid their hands on both of my shoulders and pushed me back with all of their force.  My grandma’s rose bushes stood in front of me and so did she; she was watering them and looking over her shoulder at me like she used to when I would visit.  She stayed with me for those few minutes that I sprayed them.  I smiled and soaked her in. 

Grandma and her great-grandkids

A butterfly caught my eye by the grasses waiting next in line to receive hydration, and the brief moments with my grandma vanished. For the rest of the evening, I carried her with me.  As I sit here tonight writing, I am reminded of Whitman’s words on death: 

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

I can’t wait to water my garden again.