During stressful times – and I certainly think these days can be considered stressful times – I think of my friend, Sue. Not that she’s a stressful person – far from it, as a matter of fact — but I always remember how she coped with stressful days when she taught second grade in the classroom next to Joe. That’s when I first met her.

It was on one of those days that only teachers can understand, after the students had been dismissed and after she checked in with Joe, when she would announce that she was going to fill the paste jars. Everyone understood what that meant.

She would go to a cabinet in her classroom, take out the box of small student paste jars and then the larger jug. Sitting on a second grade chair at a second grade table, she filled the smaller jars with paste from the mother jug.

It was a task that did so much, while doing so little… mindless + productive = calming. It was a task started and finished all in one sitting. On a stressful day, that’s an accomplishment and it gave Sue the sense that she had some control over an out-of-control day.

It’s the sort of task I needed to do today, a day when I reached my saturation point of another week’s news cycle, this one punctuated by the assassination of a polarizing figure and the ensuing political fallout, pundit hysteria, and public rift.

If only I had small paste jars to fill.

“Wait!” I thought to myself. “I have an overgrown lawn!”

It had been weeks since the lawn had been mowed. Joe and I had both been sidelined by COVID, and when he started to feel better and he was climbing the walls, he offered to do the mowing. “Have at it,” I said, before drifting off into a decongestant haze.

Then, it rained. Boy, did it rain — each afternoon, like clockwork. The South Florida rainy season stretches from May 15 to October 15. This year, though, it started in mid-August and it hasn’t stopped… resulting in the lawn exploding from burnt beige to dense green, shrubs overgrowing their allotted spaces, neatly edged edges lost under growth, and dormant weed seeds waking up fully refreshed and energized for a brand new day.

I suited up in my yard-work gear – bathing suit, tattered t-shirt, wide-brimmed hat that’s now stretched, making it too big for my head so it slips down to the top of my eyes, and those glaucoma sunglasses designed to block any and all sunlight. It was time to fill the paste jars, or rather the lawn mower bag.

In mowing circles, the lawnmower bag is a controversial topic. I never used one when we lived on Long Island, opting to have the clippings decompose in the lawn to recycle the nutrients. The lawn there was easy to de-thatch.

In Florida, though, I use the bag attachment for several reasons. The first is, I don’t want too much thatch settling in the lawn. St. Augustine grass and weeds can quickly grow over the clippings and it then becomes difficult to de-thatch. I also don’t want the thatch gradually adding height to the lawn, especially in the swale along the street. My other reason is to capture as many weed seeds as possible, and to then dispose of them.

Stepping outside, I knew this was going to be a long, hot mowing. Not only was the grass overgrown, it was also wet from the previous night’s rain – and this job had to be finished before the next round of predicted afternoon thunderstorms.

When it comes to mowing, Joe and I have very different styles. While the mower is always set to one of the highest settings – in order to keep the grass longer, which helps prevent weed seeds from germinating – we each have our own technique.

For instance, Joe sees the front yard as one large room. He’s fast and aggressive and has great skill in never getting tangled in the electric cord of our electric mower. With a flick of his wrist, he’s like a seasoned performer with a microphone cord.

I, on the other hand, see the front yard as four rooms. I’m also a slow mower. I look at these mowing moments as meditation… noticing gardening tasks that need to be addressed, like cleaning up (again) the crinum lilies covering the cocoplum (above), or thinking about this blog, like how can I possibly make lawn mowing, an acquired taste, seem enjoyable and slightly humorous.

Which reminds me… the electric cord. I’m forever getting wrapped in that cord – around my ankles, my legs or, sometimes, my neck. I’ve even come close to mowing over the cord — on several occasions. Look, I never said I was a coordinated mower – just a slow one.

Still, I was – and am — perfectly content in Kevin’s World, treating the lawn to its very own spa day – mowing, edging, and blowing. I even swept up and bagged all of the small fallen leaves, from trees which we don’t have, that all seem to get caught in the edges of our lawn along the street and driveway.

Filling my garden’s paste jars never felt so good.

Then it was time to mow the backyard – and just as I started, the reality of our times smacked me in the face. Two flags, facing one another, were on display. Our flag, hanging upside down, mourns a nation in distress. The neighbor’s flag, at half-staff, mourns an assassinated right-wing activist.

I paused for a moment to contemplate this scene. I don’t understand why or how anyone could honor such a man, probably as much as my neighbors can’t understand our point of view. This is just the way things are, now.

I then lowered my hat closer to my eyes – which, considering its stretched out size, wasn’t much of a, well, stretch – and continued to slow mow in slo-mo, contemplating this real world intrusion into my world.

Then, it occurred to me. Despite the symbolism of our flag, I feel as if I’m truly in mourning. No matter how much I try to keep myself distracted or to feel normal, it sneaks up on me. I feel as if I’m in mourning each day, for all of the things we’ve lost since the Inauguration… and all that we seem to be losing with each passing day… and for the person I was before watching Trumpism, MAGA, and Christian Nationalism grab hold, like a stubborn weed with a taproot that has grown deeply into American soil.

“Not today,” I thought, snapping myself out of it, because coping during these days takes a bit more effort. I took a deep breath and mowed on. “Today is not meant for mourning. Today, I have to finish this task. That’s the rule of filling paste jars. It has to be started and finished in one sitting. It has to be mindless and productive, so that it can be calming. It has to be an accomplishment, so that I feel I’m in control of something in an out-of-control world.”

Ultimately, I finished mowing and giving the backyard the same full spa treatment I had given to the front yard.

Once everything was packed away into the shed, I tried to tally up how often I had filled the lawn mower bag and emptied it. I lost count, but I knew it was a lot because of the length and heaviness of the wet grass. I also knew there were other small-paste-jar-filling chores to tackle, like weeding… but today was a good day.

I was productive. I was remarkably calm. I gained control of my day.

Sue, my friend, would be proud.