I pinned the throttle on the mower and charged into the tallest patch of grass.
Mud season usually lasts a few weeks. This has been a wet year and mud season just kept going.
I hadn't been able to cut this part of the yard at all.
The grass was three feet high and taunting me; if it got much longer, I was going to need to bring in a real tractor to hay it.
It had only been a day since the last rain and I was rolling the dice.
Turf care was my first profession. When I mow, the mower is an extension of my body. I feel the ground through the tires.
The tires struggled to find traction and I could feel the ground turning to mush.
Stuck.
I alternated between reverse and forward to rock out of the ruts I'd created. That just made deeper ruts.
I got out of the mower and broke branches off a fallen tree and wedged them into the mud under the rear tires to create traction then I tried again.
The tires spun and pushed the sticks into the mud.
I went inside and got Molly to come out to the yard and pin it while I pushed on the roll cage.
I nearly gave myself hernia and finally the mower caught enough traction to jump forward.
A month and four mows later, I still haven't been able to cut that part of the yard.
It's teeming with insects and mice and wildflowers.
Things happen in their own time.
Pushing to get things done doesn't always get them done.
Don't spin your wheels.
Wait for the yard to dry out.
Let the grass grow and see what shows up.
Stop pushing.
Start stopping.
Writing in general feels a lot like this. Forcing inspiration that isn't there, focusing on frequency and quantity over quality.
Enjoyable read.