More Mundane

There are, I decided, a couple of reasons that a woman, age 29, healthy and single, could find herself on all fours before 9:00 in the morning on a rainy Saturday.

“Want to go outside?” I asked Chienne, who happily acquiesced to having her leash attached to her collar. We unlocked the front door to step into the cloudy morning. “Oh, it’s barely sprinkling,” I told her when she huddled on the porch and pawed at the front door. “But, OK, you silly girl.”

I followed her inside, smoothed my hand over her coat and, much to her dismay, headed outside again through the garage. I grabbed a garbage bag and gardening tool and shook out the former while moving up the front walk toward the porch again. I glanced down at the sidewalk where shallow puddles of water waited then up at the sky where rain fell gently but persistently. Then I shrugged and sat down, feeling the water instantly soak the thin gray pants I wear for sleeping and listening to the water touch the black plastic trash bag as it fell from the sky.

It was soothing and lovely, for I love the rain. I smile over cloudy days where I can eschew contacts for glasses. (The sun can’t force me to squint when it’s hidden behind a blanket of fluff.) I open the blinds and let the light inside, enjoying the fact that it’s more white than yellow, making all the colors in my world seem more vivid against the softer background.

I’d miss the rain in California, I sighed, but shook my head against thoughts of jobs and two tentative offers but zero written ones. I avoided people who wanted to mentor me yesterday simply because I don’t have all the information yet. I don’t know relocation details or stock options or bonus structures for Industry. When I felt my shoulders tense against stress rather than in preparation of wiggling the roots of a weed from my flower bed, I firmly directed my thoughts to the present.

All I needed to know for the moment – on a Saturday with a complete and exquisite lack of plans – was that there were weeds around my sprouting flowers and I was going to remove them. Even sitting on the sidewalk, feeling the surface of hair hanging loose around my shoulders grow damp from the droplets of rain, the emotions were bittersweet.

I like weeding. I love this house. I’ve not always been happy here, but I always have loved the sand-colored walls inside, the light brick that surrounds the exterior. Friend and I planted the seeds that are sending leafy stalks a foot or so above the surface of the soil. I decided after examining the buds that they'd soon blossom into a ball of countless (or countable by someone with far greater patience than I possess) petals. There are mostly shades of pink, if my memories of last year aren’t flawed. Then there are the smaller flowers that bloom later. It was in those happy clumps of orange and pink and white that I found Sprout. (Who is residing quite happily with his grandparents. Chienne and I will drive up on Monday and she’ll move in with them until I settle in my new location.)

I’ve long said – when pressed about how worried I should be about selling my house in this market – that I’ve loved living here. It’s hard to regret so many days when I smiled over the high ceilings and odd angles in the living room. When I cooed over Grandma’s china that just yesterday got taken from the shelves in the kitchen and tucked into protective carriers that could then be packed. When I mowed my lawn and thought my thoughts. I can be loud or savor the quiet of not sharing walls with neighbors. Chienne grew used to having constant access to her back yard and each day rotates through the multiple napping surfaces that this structure contains. Sprout moved in without thoughts of pet rent or permission. I like having a house.

“I’ll miss you,” I told the flowers as I gently nudged them aside to yank at the weeds that crowded them. I hoped fervently that someone new would protect them from the spikey weeds and giant grasses, would mulch with the dark brown color I’d chosen and drag the hose around to water them if the summer was too dry. The reward is the gorgeous yellow irises at the far end of the walk. The pink lilies that make too many flowers and whose stalks topple over, leaving the blooms laying on the mulch. I keep telling them to put more energy into stalk strength and less into pretty flowers, but I’ve yet to see a change. I’ll be sad to leave it. But I feel blessed to have lived here.

It began to rain steadily harder and I got dirt in my hair when I tucked it behind my ears. I considered cleaning my glasses on my shirt, but couldn’t find a dry spot. When I moved from sitting to pull the weeds closest to me and shifted to rest on my hands and knees to delve deeper into the bed, my pants slipped off my hips, having grown heavy from the water they’d absorbed. I moved a hand back to tug at them before crawling forward to finish what I started. It was cool outside and I’d much rather be wet from rain than sweat. So I tugged and coaxed and finally grabbed the pokey tool to jab at the soil and rip roots from the ground.

“Oh, fine,” I told the rain when I’d almost reached the irises whose blooms have disappeared though the plants still look healthy. There were increasing levels of noise coming from the increasingly full garbage bag as the drops bounced off the black plastic with greater force. The fabric around my legs sloshed when I moved from sitting to kneeling to standing and I giggled when I realized the few cars that passed by probably thought I had serious problems. But I finished as best I could through the now-pouring rain, nudging my glasses down my nose so I could see above the spotted lenses to get at the last remaining weeds.

I waddled toward the garage, slipping out of my flip flops that had become puddle-carrying devices, and waiting until the door rumbled closed before giving up and letting my pants fall to my ankles. I stepped out of them while I tugged off my shirt and tossed everything in the washer.

“I got wet,” I offered to the dog who appeared taken aback at my lack of attire when I walked in the door. She waited while I selected a different pair of pants and loose t-shirt and then accepted the pets she wanted. I kissed the top of her head before moving to the bathroom, cleaning my glasses on my soft, dry shirt. I toweled off my hair before glancing at the dark curls and realizing that a majority of them had stayed dry. It was only the top layer that had absorbed the water, leaving the rest safe and dry.

We’ve only scratched the surface of what I can handle, I decided, feeling strong and smart, capable and relaxed. So I smiled at my reflection, washed the dirt off my hands and went to make coffee.

I think today should be a good day.