Farmers

I sit in the front yard, hand pulling little weeds. The yard looks nice from the street. You don't notice the weeds unless you're walking by. But here I am, pulling these little buggars before they go to seed. I look up the street, and across the way at the soccer field. Then it hit me. We're all farmers.

This doesn't make me happy. We raise a fairly useless "crop". Grass. Kentucky blue grass, to be specific. In arid Colorado. Doesn't make much sense, does it? We can't eat it. No livestock eats it. The wild bunnies do, but I'm not speaking to them. They ate too much of my garden this summer. Well, I take that back. I do speak to them. I tell them, "You can eat the grass. You can even eat the flowers. Just leave my vegetable garden alone! You see that fence? That means keep out!" That's what I tell them these days. I empathize with Mr. MacGregor. Ole Peter Rabbit doesn't get my sympathy anymore.

But back to the grass thing. I think of all the time and expense we suburbanites spend on keeping the yard looking good enough to keep the neighbors from talking and the city from giving us a citation. Sure, it's fun to walk out there barefoot. But I'd rather put on shoes and walk in a pasture. I'd rather be a useful farmer. A real farmer.

So what I do is plant seeds. Ideas, actually. In our children's heads. Thoughts of living away from the city. Living off your land. Living simply. And then I pray for those seedlings to take root.

Maybe I am a bit of a farmer after all.