The Lower Meadow

I mowed the lower meadow yesterday. It was finally dry enough for the mower not to cut ruts in the earth or get stuck in slick surface water just beneath the grasses. It's been more than three weeks since my last mow so the grasses were high.

It seems to me that species work together to protect each other and their territory. The grasses can't protect themselves from the cut, but their sentient field friends and neighbors can molest the intruder and did. The deer flies were out in abundance and attacked me like a squadron of dive bombers.

The long time between mows allowed the meadow grasses and what I thought were weeds to grow to over ten inches and lo and behold the field was filled with wild flowers.

There were daises, buttercups, lavender, Lilly’s of the Valley, Bluets, Forget-me-nots, and some bright blue flowers I can’t name; the meadow was speckled with brilliant color. Some flowers were tall, some were short, and there were broad leaves, thin leaves and all shapes and sizes in-between. I felt sadness as my mower powered over them. This was the second time in many years that they were allowed to grow to their fullness and flower.

As I circled the acreage cutting the field into a lawn again, I wondered how often that happens to people, especially young people who are cut off by the blade of parents opinion, teachers counsel, group mores, social conditions, religious dogma and other condemnations before their individuality can flower into full creative potential.

A myriad of authorities often inhibit, if not restrict, the young from choosing a different path. A path of joy, heart, and contradictory fulfillment.

How many great discoveries have we cut in the bud by saying we don’t do it that way, or we’ve never done it that way or that’s not the way it’s done. How many creative geniuses have we stifled because Dad or Mom went to that school and so should you or you’ll make more money doing this than that.

How many hearts have we broken or bent in saying, “you must, you should, you’d better."

Perhaps we should think more of letting the unending field of individual choice and its innate creativity blossom into greatness.

I won't have to deal with these philosophical questions next week. The grass will just be short and green when I mow again. Maybe it's time to let the meadow be itself.