Another day, another miracle. You toss the seeds, dust them with compost, and water them every morning. Five days later you notice a hint of green, and you crouch down to find tiny green spires poking up out of the soil.
Another do-over. The clumped clay rubble where the old propane tank used to live will slowly become a soft, pain-free place for bare feet.
You wonder why it took so long to do something about the west side of the house. For years, you diligently blasted the sparse weeds along the brick skirting with your electric trimmer, telling yourself, “Nothing wants to grow here in the shade of the fig,” without a thought to amending the soil or sprinkling seed.
Last year, masons repaired the wall, making everything worse, so that only the hardiest weeds took root. You clicked your tongue and hurried by on your way to the laundry line or to inspect the chestnut trees for Japanese beetles.
And then a few months ago, it got even uglier when you changed propane vendors. Euliss, the new company, sent out a crew to deliver a horizontal tank to replace the old one, leaving a mound of clay clods and three concrete blocks where the upright tank used to sit.
You haul off the blocks and rake the barren dirt smooth, then stand back, pleased with yourself for having “fixed” the problem, and continue walking past the grey scar for another month or so.
Then one morning in that stolen hour between coffee and the meaty part of your day, you wander outside to pull a few cool breaths and see those leveled dirt clogs in a different light. You get out the wheelbarrow, roll back the tarp over the compost pile, and get to work.
Be kind to these tender seedlings, you tell yourself sprinkling water in a soft, fine spray—protect them, believe in them, and they will thrive.
It wasn’t laziness that kept you from fixing this eyesore, it was lack of imagination. You don’t have to accept anything that does not serve you. Barren ground can always be amended and a new story, if tended, will take root.
