One of Those Moments

There was a time in my life, not so long ago I confess, when I hated to mow. It was a chore. A time consuming task invoking hours of pre-toil dread.
That was before.
Before the summer of drought. Before my lawn lay brittle, more brown than green. More dead than alive. A daily bitter reminder of my wasted appreciation.
Somehow, its slow slide towards death seemed to be my ride as well.
But that was last year. It is mid-May and the sky has not, as was the case last year, held its liquid life in check. It has been a wet Spring. A perfect Spring. For grass.
And for this writer, as well. The seemingly dead expanses stretching from one end of my suburban tract to the other have begun to green. To fill in with lush Kentucky teal. My lawn reborn from ocher ashes, like an emerald rising phoenix. New, fresh, alive.
And with it my love of mowing. I have mowed ten times already...easy.
But today is a little different. It has rained a lot this week. It has not been easy to find a break in the clouds of sufficient length to fulfill my self imposed responsibility.
But upon return from work today, the sun poked though and I was at it.
I had finished the parkway and was working on the front yard when the world turned black. I looked to the sky in time to see the clouds begin their circular rolling motion. The temperature dropped and the wind shook the wet from the maples.
It had not yet begun to rain and I determined to press on. I finished the front and was on to the rear yard, feeling more confident and sure by the moment.
But the darkness remained and the wind spun wild through the trees. Spinning and twisting, affecting an ominous dance.
I pushed on, mower roaring, wind blasting my face. It was a race now. Every new step was a moment closer to the finish line.
I could say here that the first flash of lightening simply strengthened my resolve. That the ensuing crack of thunder was drowned by the droning mower and ignored. That it was now nothing personal, but merely more yard work. But why should I lie.
It was me against it. A stumbling intrepid biped against the endless angry sky. A metaphor. Man against nature.
Then finally I had reached that point.
Any man who has mowed under the threat of rain knows that moment. That moment of no return. When no matter the torrent, the mowing would continue. When what is left of the yard demands the finishing of the thing. I had reached that point. No tsumani, no typhoon, no hurricane sent by God would stop me at that moment.
But the heavens are not impressed by the vanities of man. And an ebony glove settled earthward seemingly ignoring the unrelenting gale, grabbed the air and stopped it dead.
I paused, held by breath, then moved on. Just then the wind returned and with it the first drop of rain...
Sometimes one awakens and again remembers that life involves those little moments. Those times of strangeness and connectedness and oneness with the world. Time has a way of letting one forget that. I only relate this as to remind the reader to take the time to slow down. To look for those moments. To search them out.
...and for those among you who may still be wondering, “Did he finish yard, did he beat the rain?”
Well, let me just end by saying that that is between I and the sky.