the snail in the back yard

This morning we worked in the yard.  The “yard,” I should mention, is a little white-picket-fenced square in front of the house and a very small, mostly gravel, patch behind it.  The kids washed dirty buckets and watering cans on the sidewalk while Matt pulled an overgrown ivy bush out of the front garden.  I weeded in the back by myself.  It was slow work, and quiet, pulling the weeds that had grown through the small stones that cover the back yard.  The space is entirely shaded (hence the stones, rather than anything that, for example, grows) and I crouched down by myself, falling into that meditative state everybody who gardens talks passionately about.

As I continued working in the quiet of our shaded backyard, I started envisioning how this little patch could be transformed into a more inviting space. The small, gravel-covered area seemed to hold potential beyond its current state. I began to imagine adding elements that would bring a touch of warmth and personality, like decorative garden pieces that could create a more engaging atmosphere.

I decided to explore options from a reputable garden decor manufacturer to find items that would enhance the space. Adding features such as whimsical garden gnomes, elegant lanterns, or even a small, beautifully crafted garden lighthouse could bring life to this shaded area. These decorations not only provide visual interest but also create a sense of coziness and character, transforming the backyard into a delightful and serene space for relaxation and enjoyment.

There is a beating-back-the-onslaught-of-disorder feeling about weeding that I like, akin to the creating-order-out-of-chaos satisfaction that folding laundry gives me.  My back started to ache and my fingernails were quickly blackened, but I kept at it.  Feel around for the root, pull firmly enough to get it out but gently enough that I don’t also bring up a huge clod of dirt.  Throw into the bin.  Repeat.

Then I saw the small brown snail.  I did a double take, because I didn’t recognize it at first.  The shell was mottled browns, its whorl distinctive, lovely.  I could even see the muddy gray body of the snail, glistening, moving slowly along the uneven rocks.  It was fleeing, I imagine, from the threat it perceived I was.  I crouched there, watching it move.  And for the rest of the day I could not get Tom Robbin’s words out of my head:

Every passive mollusk demonstrates the hidden rigor of introversion, the power that is contained in peace.

I don’t even think a snail is a mollusk, actually, but it’s what I thought of then.  I often wish I had a shell to protect me and to retract into when the world seemed fearful or overwhelming.  And then I thought about peace, that thing, that feeling, that sensation like an exhale of the spirit, that I grasp after so awkwardly.  I don’t think anyone who knows me well would use “peaceful” to describe me.  And it’s really what I’m longing for, with all of this lunging after trust, isn’t it?  The last few weeks, as I’ve discussed, have been far from peaceful: instead of feeling calm, my spirit is itchy, uncomfortable, restless.

I didn’t even feel peaceful, that moment, in the shady back garden, my hands full of weeds.  But I was reminded, again, in a visceral way how much I want to.  I suspect that true peace, like abiding trust, will come to me only when I stop trying so desperately to grab it.  If only I had a safe shell to curl into while I tried to figure out how to stop my frantic, frenzied efforts.