originally posted on everything i did
Dear gardener sir,
The sound of your leaf-blower makes me cringe. I feel the snarl on my lip and I shudder with annoyance. My skin feels like it’s crawling. It’s Tuesday. In the middle of the day. I just want some peace. I came home to breathe. I’m grateful to be home for a much-needed break to pet my dog, recharge with some nourishing food, catch some midday sun-rays, and sit in silence. And now the über-fart-like machine sound of your leaf-blower is the bane of my existence.
My mind immediately clouds, my heart races, my dog barks, and my body goes into frustration overdrive. And there’s no one to blame but you. You! You who wields the blasted machine. This machine whose existence I cannot (for the life of me!) find justification for: what’s wrong with leaves anyway? when did sweeping go out of style? why waste gasoline to power that thing? are YOU hearing this?
Then I stop. I take a breath. And another.
Of course you’re hearing this. You’re probably wearing earplugs to drown out the hideous sound you hear in five or ten gardens a day. (It’ll be over for me in twenty minutes) You probably hate to be a bother to the lucky lass who gets to come home for lunch and take a break in her yard. (Did you even get a break today?) You probably (definitely) have other interests, and hobbies, and yearnings other than polluting my yard/air/day/life by doing your job that you’re almost certainly not paid enough to do.
Fine, to you I surrender. Blow the darn leaves. I rescind my negative thoughts. I replace my snarl with a smile. I swap it all for compassion. All of it. And may you be happy. May you be healthy. May you feel safe. May you feel free. May you live with ease.
Yours sincerely in the practice of loving-kindness, Lena