I love a freshly cut lawn – especially when it’s mine. Many people enjoy the smell of freshly cut grass, but I’m most moved by how it looks when everything is neat and trim.

Because I mostly mow in the evenings, my final inspection is usually done by headlight as I drive my John Deere towards the setting sun looking for missed patches and stray blades. I can’t truly appreciate the fruits of my labor until the next morning.

I’ll often pause before parting the curtains of my front bay window the following morning to truly appreciate the moment. That first glimpse is always special. The lawn is never perfect but it’s always better.

Newer, like stepping out of the shower and seeing a fresh haircut for the first time without all the products the barber insists on smearing through your hair.

With both experiences I get to thinking, “I forgot it could look this good, I should always keep it this short.” But then life gets in the way and I inevitably wait too long.

Looking over my freshly mowed lawn is one of my favorite things about homeownership.

On crisp summer mornings, I’m greeted by a cavalcade of orange-breasted robins picking through the fresh-cut grass plundering newly exposed treasures while exasperated squirrels dash about inventorying their reserves.

The rhythmic bobbing of the birds’ heads reassures me that I’m surrounded by abundance – even if it’s only of bugs and worms.

Life can flourish here.

It feels good when everything is clean and aligned, although the feeling is short-lived.

After appreciating the uniformity my eye quickly goes to the contradictions:

To the tree bases and garden bed edges I will weed-whack around sometime later.

To the mulched grass clippings clumped all along the walkway and up-and-down my driveway, which will soon brown and blow away.

To the bushes needing tending with branches to prune and weeds to pull away.

My sense of accomplishment is tempered by the awareness that even as I sip my coffee there are forces working hard to ruin what I’ve accomplished:

Dandelion shoots still connected to their roots that will rise again, thicker and stronger, spreading their rebellion across my kingdom.

Creeping Charlies, the invasive ivy strain weaving through the masses blending in among the soil until it turns the native plants against me.

Virulent vines wrapping their tendrils around my shrubs squeezing the life from my hydrangeas.

Lawns are a battlefield full of enemy attacks and purposefully crafted misdirection.

The evergreens encroaching on the eastern edge seem innocent enough except that in the weekend spent addressing them, the crabgrass has advanced on the western front and now has the mailbox entirely surrounded.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

It took less than one season as a homeowner for me to forfeit any plans of total control over my lawn.

For years I’ve taken the ‘Grass is Always Greener by the Slip n’ Slide’ approach of trying to simply keep my lawn presentable and usable enough to spot a bocce ball from twenty feet away.

But now, as a father to an infant, I’m viewing the yard in a new way that downplays control even more by emphasizing sensory experiences over appearances.

On nice days I’ll sit on a blanket with my daughter Senita and listen to the chirping birds. She gets surprised every time the wind blows and is captivated by the swaying of the trees.

I’ll pluck a few blades to tickle her four-month-old feet and laugh as her eyes get big when we move from the sun to the shade.

We explore the different textures of our tree bark and sneeze when we pass the lilac bush.

Things may not be as neat and trim as I’d like each morning when I snap open my living room curtains, but suddenly there’s a lot more to see.

Those weeds that need to be whacked and patches of uneven grass are the places we’ll go first because they provide the sensory experiences that make Senita’s eyes go wide with surprise.

And I love the look of that.

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