When Flowers Bloom Into Wishes

It's mid-July. The summer is wasting away. The days are so hot now that walking outdoors is like walking into a blast furnace and the 100+ heat threatens to scorch your brain cells. Still, being outdoors is a thousand times better than being stuck inside staring at a computer screen all day. So, I drag the lawn chair to the backyard, sit in the sun, and listen to the songs of the birds and the cicadas. Their sounds bring a sense of peace and calm from the chaotic clamoring in my mind. 

Back in March, I had started thinking about planting wildflowers in the backyard to reduce my lawn. Lawns are silly. They don't serve much purpose. The grass grows, and we cut it, or pay someone else to cut it, once a week... once every two weeks... It's a stalemate between you and the grass, and it's a complete waste of time, money, and energy. 

It's not that well-manicured lawns look bad. They don't. But why not plant something useful and create manicured walking paths among the wildflowers? The wildflowers will feed the birds, and the bees, and the butterflies. They will drink the rain and the dew, and display their glorious blooms for a season. When they wither, they will feed the soil, provide cover for insects and small mammals, reseed themselves, and break forth to bloom again in the spring.

The most well-manicured lawn can't compete with that.

The days tick by... the months... the seasons. I stare at the lawn, which has withered and browned in the intense southwest heat. The parched earth splits apart from the summer drought.  "Be careful where you walk," I tell myself, while prickly blades of grass crunch under my bare feet.  As odd as it sounds, I find the brown, dying lawn more appealing now than when it was lush and green. 

A not-so-random thought emerges that I speak out loud to myself. "It's too late to plant anything, now." And I derive a sense of relief knowing that the time to plant has indeed long passed, and I am, somehow, now absolved of the responsibility, because I never planted the wildflowers. I only dreamt about them. I only wrote about them, and became lost in the overwhelm.  

The overwhelm is my near-constant companion. It's the precursor to procrastination.  It's the thing that keeps me from moving forward on any project.

You've heard the phrase, "You have to eat the elephant one bite at a time."

Focusing on the overwhelm is the brain envisioning you eating the whole elephant all at once, rather than taking it on one bite at a time.  It lets you see the goal on the other side, and it lets you see where you are at the starting point, but everything in between resembles a Jackson Pollock painting. There is no form. There is no path. There is no way to get there from here. So, you sink into procrastination, and you abandon yet another project that may have brought you a bit of joy and a sense of accomplishment. The pattern of procrastination always leaves a void.

Fall comes. Winter comes. Another spring. Another summer. And the flowers bloom into wishes.