Gardening is fun.

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead. The sweat and dirt on my hand smear across my skin. My shirt and shorts are sticking to my back. It’s one of those hot days where all my clothes will have to be washed afterwards, along with myself.

I pull at another weed. I really have to yank, the stubborn little thing fighting my arm until finally going out with a bang, spraying dirt in my face.

I wince and spit out the dirt in my mouth. Once it’s safe to open my eyes, I break apart the dirt clumps still clinging to the roots. Then I throw down the worthless weed into the weed bucket, a feeble attempt to prove my sovereignty over my garden and my dominance to a small dead weed.

I sigh, shifting on my stubby garden stool to try and alleviate my sore rear for only a few seconds. And my sore back. And my sore neck. And down I bend again to pull out the next weed.

I let out a shaky breath as I wrap my fingers around the next weed. I’m getting agitated again. I need to stop. This is supposed to relaxing. Gardening is a common hobby, a calm activity that many people enjoy and use to alleviate stress and give them a sense of purpose. It’s supposed to be fun, not stressful.

I breathe in and out, slowly, focusing on my breath. Don’t struggle too much to yank out the weed. It needs a slow, gradual, gentle but firm pull. All it takes is patience.

That’s it, then. Patience. I give the weed a gentle but firm squeeze, and lift the weed with gentle but firm force.

The leaves of the weed snap, leaving the roots intact in the ground.

I curl my fingers into a gentle but firm fist and pound the dirt.

Which is not childish. It’s actually to pack down the dirt again. Once weeds are pulled out, the dirt becomes loose, and you have to pack it down to, um…

…No, it’s childish.

I put my hands on my knees and hoist myself up to a standing position. I stretch. My watch says 2:34 pm. I’ve been out for almost two hours now. I grasp my dirty water bottle, take a swig, and survey my garden.

It’s not like the catalogues yet. Not yet an “after” shot in a home improvement show, when the host with bleached hair leads the young couple out to the grand mini-ecosystem of a backyard, where the greens are luscious and the purples are vibrant and little hummingbirds sing in a three-part harmony and someone posts it in one of those “Top 10 Gardens You’ll Never Have the Time, Energy, or Money to Actually Make but Boy Howdy Does it Look Neat” articles. No, mine's not even close. 

Well, I mean, it isn’t bad. There are some bushes, some flowers. The bricks that outline the garden are cracked at the edges and look uneven. The centerpiece is a water-stained glass box, a failed attempt to make one of those impressive-looking water fountains. Could never get it to stop leaking. So instead of giving up and wrapping the whole thing in practical-but-ugly duct tape, I gave up altogether.

But I couldn’t give up on the garden, no. I’d put in so much work, and there was yet more work to do. It’d be all worth it in the end. Soon, I’d have that picturesque garden and be proud of my hard work and weed it to keep it looking nice week after week after week. Weeding for years to come. Nothing but weeding.

All so my backyard looks nice.

It doesn’t look nice.



For the most part.



Okay, it's passable.

It doesn't look [i]awful[/i]. Dare I say, it looks decent. Most folks don’t have a garden at all. Maybe it adds a cent or two to my property value.

I look down at the bucket of weeds, not even a quarter full. I pick it up, carry it over to the compost bin, and dump it. Then I go get my stool and trowel to put back in the garage.

Maybe I’ll take up painting. I’ve always wanted to try it--though, without spending too much on canvases, paints, paintbrushes… Maybe there’s a five-week class or something I can take. If I don’t like it, I could try something else.

But who knows, could be fun.