On lying on the grass

Today I wanted to write.  Or maybe I didn’t want to write, but I wanted to want to write.  Because it’s good for me.  Because I’m trying to develop a daily habit.  Because it’s the reason I worked thirteen hour days in February.  So I would have the time to write.  Everyday.

I wanted to write  but I also wanted to find out whether or not the mother of Michael Jackson’s children was requesting custody.  And I wanted to research how to get rid of the flies that have recently moved into my apartment.  And I wanted to know how people reviewed the skis I noticed on sale at the used sporting goods store.  Maybe you have experienced this kind of conflict of interest?

So I did what any moderately self-disciplined person would do:  I grabbed my journal and a mat and a floppy straw hat, and I went out into the grass.

My mother is a grass-lying enthusiast.  When the sun is out, so is she, with a magazine and sometimes some lemonade.  She is very satisfied in the grass.  I discovered today what I suppose my mom has known all along–that grass can be very seductive.  For starters, sun-warmed grass is perfect for toes.  They love it there–and who could blame them?  And on a cloudless day with low humidity, the sunlight is like a quilt straight from the dryer, and after a few minutes of motionlessness, one could readily confuse her patch of grass with a big warm bed*.

You’ve got your usual leaf-rustling, wind-caressing-the-tree-branches kinds of noises: far off bird chirps, insect buzzes, hummingbird wings, etc.  But here in Squamish all of this is punctuated with the desperate, gutteral moans of climbers attempting new projects on the nearby cliffs, the clink of carabiners sailing through the air and the angry goddamnit following a few seconds later.  The serenity comes and goes along with the neighbor’s hip hop music, which is good for staying awake but not so good for writing on topics that extend beyond grass lying (which I did not attempt).

It’s no Walden pond, but my grass has its charms.   Its an ideal location for eating cherries or testing new sunscreen.  It is good for spying on ants and looking for but probably not finding four-leaf clovers.  It is a perfect spot for daydreaming about the Greek summer home you one day intend to purchase.  And an excellent place for considering whether or not you think season five of Weeds is still funny.  The moutains are even visible in the distance–with a little bit of snow surviving on top–if you lay your mat out near the patio.

I went to the grass to write deliberately, but the truth is I could not do it.  I found myself wishing I was the climber with the clinking biners, and that my neighbors had never invested in that above ground pool.  Old HD Thoreau was, obviuosly, more committed that I was.  Still, I like it there in the grass, if only for how it’s strands catch between my toes, if only for an excuse to eat cherries and wear my floppy straw hat.

*finding herself disoriented and painfully sunburnt a few hours later.  (I didn’t think this part of the sentence qualified as one of the grass’s seductive features)