I didn't plan to spend a few hours yesterday weeding; in fact, if I had planned it, I might not have done it, out of resentment of feeling that I should take care of the weeding. We have parts of the yard that are supposed to be low maintenance, covered by small river rock. Alas, it's been several years, and the weeds are not deterred like they once were. This year, those areas are particularly scuffy.
Yesterday, I went over to a huge weed and yanked--and it came right out. It's a strangely exhilarating feeling--and so, I kept going. My spouse worked on the murky pool, I worked on the weeds, and when it was done, we went to the front yard. He mowed, I weeded in the front, and after a few hours, we could see the progress we made.
There's always more work that can be done, of course. The shrubbery reaches for the sky and scraggles sideways too. The paver bricks could use some weed killer. But I got the hydrangeas put into bigger pots and grass seeds on the bare parts of the lawn.
I woke up this morning sore in strange places, which also makes me feel good. It means I really did get some sort of work out.
This morning I woke up thinking about volunteering our cottage to the camp counselors who will be coming in two weeks to run our Vacation Bible School--that date would force me to get the cottage into some kind of livable space. But I don't really know what we're facing. I could scrub the patch of mold off the wall, and it could come right back. I wouldn't worry about it for me--but maybe I shouldn't expose others. I know I won't have time to remove and replace the drywall.
Let me go to church and ponder this idea . . .
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