Tammy Letherer 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.
What’s the point? I thought.
Two days later, I walked by again and there he was, on his knees, weeding. A patch of black dirt was beginning to take shape.
I saw him a couple of times after that, wearing the same clothes, kneeling on the same bag, surrounded by a sea of weeds. I started to get curious. I wondered about his vision. What were his plans for this little yard? My unkind judgments began tipping toward admiration.
Then today, back in town after a ten-day vacation, I parked in my usual spot and was hurrying to class when I saw the man standing on a perfect square of black dirt. There wasn’t a weed in sight.
And I had to admit that the house looked a little more charming.
I also realized that I’d become invested in his project. I want to see what will happen with this little patch of land. I want to know the end of his story.
Yes, his story. However humble and frustratingly slow his efforts may have been, a story was emerging with every weed he pulled.
As writers, we may envision all the colors of a blooming garden or only see as far as a patch of dirt. In either case, we won’t see results unless we put in the work. And the work is not always fun. It’s usually tedious and messy.
So we have a choice: we can look at the weeds and, like I did, think about how ugly they are, how pulling them is too much work, and how it’s a waste of time anyway because once the weeds are gone, we just have to paint the house and rebuild the porch and fix the sidewalk.
Or we can be like the man who just kept going. He was focused on getting down to the nitty gritty, seeing what was underneath it all, and making way for something new.
Even if I walk by a month from now and see that little yard choked in weeds again, I’ll remember the day the patch of dirt was smooth and clear and the way the man stood, his hands on his hips, in the middle of it all.
He’ll never know it, but we shared an experience. And that’s the point.
