I am told that falling leaves symbolize transition. This may be so. But that does little to alleviate the distinct displeasure with which I face my new duty to rake and bag the leaves on my one-third acre property now that Hannah and I have become the proud owners of a lot with an established Oak in the backyard.
I remain unclear as to why this activity is at all necessary. I had been under the impression that the leaves would, left alone, begin to decompose at some point. But perhaps not quickly enough, and apparently there is also some concern about the ability of the turf underneath to survive.
If you ask me on a conceptual level whether I would benefit from being more connected to the land, I would be moderately, naively inclined to say yes. Faced with the reality of bagging leaves on an unseasonably warm November day yesterday, I am not so sure.
I have been undergoing some transitions of my own, and I had been considering the possibility of gardening as a new hobby, but this experience makes me reconsider whether that is wise. I never did especially like to go outside as a child, as an adult that has changed somewhat, and I like to imagine a version of myself that spends long hours in my garden, but I’m deeply uncertain about whether that is a realistic picture of myself.
There are plenty more leaves to which I must turn my attention this weekend, we will see whether I can not find some joy in it; I think the trick will be to do it in the morning before it heats up too much.