The Bliss of Finity

The Bliss of Finity

Early on it was creeping Charlie. The last two years it was violets. Before that, morning glory and flax. Every year I’m presented with an eradication project, a vegetable threat to the bluegrass monoculture of my yard. Yes, I fully comprehend the many ironies here: Mr Systems, Mr Naturalist, Mr Dissent who hates to mow and once had his west yard reduced to patches of wildflowers has fallen prey to convention, assimilated by the Borg of petrochemical society.

Maybe, maybe not. The lawn has become my little Zen project. I keep it weed free by growing it long, mowing as little as possible, and weeding by hand. I let the grass outcompete most weeds, but lend a hand when needed. In return, my little Bluegrass Nation cools my yard.

This year – and probably every year from now on -- its maple seedlings now that the trees I planted for each daughter have, like the daughters, come into bloom. Long grass is good, strong grass, but it’s also a great starter bed for maple seeds. So once again I’m patrolling my yard one square meter at a time, this time plucking trees by the handful like Giant John.

The maples, at least, require nothing but fingers for removal. That said, there is something fun about weeding with a K-bar or tomahawk, my tools of choice with the violets. It’s fun to be that guy, the one who weeds and waves with a weapon. But something more than the fun of unintended intimidation keeps me in the yard: the allure of the finite, and its shadow, the illusion of omnipotence.

You see, weeding a lawn of violets or maple seedlings may at first blush seem like a fool’s errand, and to some quixotic extent, it is. Every year, after all, its something. Maybe the same weed, maybe not, but the challenge of the earth’s automatic fecundity never ends. That’s why maintenance of a monoculture – any monoculture – is an illusion of omnipotence. Within that illusion, however, lies heaven.

This is true only as long as a proper humility provides constraint, for with bounds comes the prospect of perfection. In life, as inside my yard, only so many weeds can grow – their number is finite. In theory, therefore, the perfect lawn is an attainable goal, one whose worth is measure by the effort needed to achieve it, as is true of every spiritual quest. But let pride grow, try to substitute the universal for the individual, and the illusion fades. As it does, the bliss of finity recedes like the end of a rainbow, a spiritual Frisbee spinning forever out of reach. The bliss of finity is the bliss of discipline – a discipline of leisure.