The man is navigating a big truck on the field beside the house. He drives in neat lanes, up and down, weaving himself from one end to the other. He’s a good driver, that man. And he’s giving the field a grooming.
I love the smell of just-cut grass. If green had a smell, it would smell like this. Green and raw and fresh.
It reminds me of little children playing, the sun shining, wispy white clouds against a pale-blue sky, vast tracts of green stretching into forever.
And I thought about the grass. About how the grass needs to be cut before you can smell the green. About how the grass needs to be broken through before you can smell the raw. About how the grass needs to die a little in order for you to smell the fresh.
Like a person. Needing to let go of the old so that the new can grow.
To break-down, so that you can re-start.
For only in being broken do you learn which are the pieces of you that are essential to your being, and which are the pieces of you that you can leave behind.
I know I will never be the same again. But does being broken make me any less of a person? The jury’s still out on this one…