Several weeks ago, on my way to my yoga class, I noticed an elderly man pulling weeds in his front yard. He was kneeling on a paper bag, working his way slowly through what looked to me like an impossible task.
Because the yard was nothing but weeds. And the house itself, in my ungenerous opinion, was a sort of weed, with sad, faded blue paint, a sagging front porch, and a sidewalk that was crumbling and cracked.









