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| Photograph by Matilda Angus |
In a recent post on The Restory Retreat Centre’s facebook page Matilda mentioned me cutting the lawn around the house with a tractor and slasher. During a very good rainy season it has to be done weekly. In dry years like the current one it is done once in two or three weeks. Aesthetically it keeps the yard neat, but on a practical level it also serves as a buffer around the house against snakes and other creatures. With grass touching the window sills, the wild will literally be on our doorstep.
This cutting exercise is indeed prime thinking time. While busy doing it last week I thought of all things about grass. Despite the validity of the aesthetics and safety factors, there are times when I feel as if I’m betraying some primal element of our lifestyle here at Barrowfield while busy with the tractor and slasher. Gerard Manley Hopkins advised, “Leave the wildness and wet” and here I am actively busy not leaving it. To rub salt in the wounds I recently read the following in the wonderful book Wild by Jay Griffths:
“I was educated – as we all are – to stay inside, within the bounds of my tribe (physical bounds and intellectual bounds) and to stay within the protected zone, to let the traffic of routine smother desire for the real outside. I was taught – as we all are – to be scared of the prowling unknown, of the wild deserts of Beyond.
And we were taught to play golf. Golf epitomizes the tame world. On a golf course nature is neutered. The grass is clean, a lawn laundry that wipes away the mud, the insect, the bramble, nettle and thistle, an Eezy-wipe lawn where nothing of life, dirty and glorious, remains. Golf turns outdoors into indoors, a prefab mat of stultified grass, processed, pesticided, herbicided, the pseudo-green of formica sterility. Here, the grass is not singing. The wind cannot blow through it. Dumb expression, greenery made stupid, it hums a bland monotone in the key of the mono-minded. No word is emptier than a golf tee. No roots, it has no known etymology, it is verbal nail polish. Worldwide, golf is an arch act of enclosure, a commons fenced and subdued for the wealthy, trampling serf and seedling. The enemy of wildness, it is a demonstration of the absolute dominion of man over wild nature.”
I can say with a clean conscience that I do not play golf. But I have to confess that I cut grass. I want to state my reasons while confessing and draw attention to the fact that there are places that I cannot reach, that the slasher leaves the cut grass in windrows which is a far cry from any putting green. If you look closely you’ll notice some stems left behind that still bend in the breeze. But I leave it at that. It’s bad enough to be guilty of forsaking the wild. Being hypocritical will only add insult to injury.
George
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