That stick isn’t in my yard.
There is only so much ground that I’m charged with taking care of, and
where that ground ends is now marked by little pink flags and ribbons left by
the surveyor.
My yard isn’t rectangular.
The front of the property is a straight line, and it borders the
road. In the back, the creek forms the
boundary. So, I suppose, when the creek
is low, I own just a little bit more land, and when the creek is high, I own
just a little bit less. The dock sits
over the creek, of course, so it’s like my own extension of my property
floating in the air. In a way, I’ve
circumvented the boundary by using the third dimension. The creek is in the middle of a bend when it
comes alongside my property, which, I think, will be interesting for my
contemplation of flash flooding. Curves
cause acceleration, and acceleration causes force. I worry that this may make the dock
especially vulnerable to being washed away.
You can see lots of evidence of scouring in the slope that borders the
creek. My backyard is ever so slowly
shrinking.
The sides of my land are marked by the pink flags and
ribbons, and though they all form straight lines, they form a bit of a jigsaw
puzzle. The southwest side of the
property, apparently, is zig zaggy because of the way the land was bought and
sold; my property extends into what should be my neighbor’s backyard. The northeast side of the property, adjoined
by a government building with its own ground, has a little zig where my well is
located.
There are also the boundaries between where I live and where
nature lives. There’s the house. You don’t normally think of a house as a boundary,
and the couple of worms that have found their way inside since I moved here certainly
haven’t. Then there is the screened
front porch fronted by a worn welcome mat, where equally tired leaves are
beginning to accumulate with the changing of the seasons.
There are boundaries within my yard as well. Most obviously, there’s the fence around the
garden. There’s the edge of the yard,
where it meets the wildflowers, the thorny plants, and the bare ground
surrounding the trees. There are
boundaries between the wildflowers and the bare ground surrounding the
trees. There are boundaries between tree
trunks and the soil. Between natural and
manmade things.
You know, I’m really talking about two types of
boundaries. There are interfaces – like
between the lawn and the house, between the fence surrounding the garden and the
thorny plants. But there are also those
boundaries without interfaces – like the ones marked by the pink flags - and
these are the ones I’ll call boundaries for the rest of the post. Boundaries are the stuff that maps are made
of: Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas…
But interfaces are like oil and water.
They can move over time. The
creek swells with rainwater. The thorny
plants grow both inside and outside the garden’s fence.
There are boundaries in time, too. We’ve recently passed the autumnal equinox –
the day when everywhere on Earth sees equal daylight and night – the day when
the Sun skirts the horizon at the North and South Poles. Now my nights are longer than my days, and
this will continue for about another six months. This, of course, affects my ability to manage
my lawn, as the sun has nearly set by the time I get home.
There are also things that happen over longer time periods. In my yard, it’s the changes in the
microhabitats. The garden didn’t get
overgrown overnight. The patches of
wildflowers weren’t always there. At one
point, this land was forest, looking not at all like my current tiny patch of
forest, which has been turned into a branch collecting ground.
And I have to decide how to manage these places going
forward. Do I want to replace the
patches of thorny plants with wildflowers?
Right now my property is a bit like a farm, with “crops” in different
places: the garden, the wildflowers, the “forest”. Do I want to maintain that, or do I want
something a bit more like the way things would be in nature?
Then there’s the garden.
It’s a fenced-off area not quite in the middle of the yard, but nearer
to the house. I could take the fence
out, clear the overgrowth, and replace it with grass. But then I would have more to mow. I could leave the fence, clean it up, and put
some real kind of garden there. But I’m
not much of a gardener. So the garden is
another kind of boundary - a boundary in my mind, between the parts of my
property I can easily imagine how to manage, and the parts that I cannot. So naturally, the garden is the place where
I’ll start my first big project. Once I
figure out what to do with it.
Just as the weeds have grown up along the interface of the garden
fence, what I put on the grass works its way down through the soil’s
interstices. I’m not sure whether to use
fertilizer, but I’m sure not to use pesticide, because my house uses well
water, and the well is on my property. But
even if the well weren’t on my property, I wouldn’t want to use pesticide or
fertilizer. The well draws water from
the aquifer under my land. I don’t want
to drink pesticide or fertilizer, and I don’t want anyone else to have to drink
pesticide or fertilizer.
The nice thing about my yard’s boundaries is that they
simplify things. If I want, I can take
all of the thorny plants out of the wildflower patches, and all of the
wildflowers out of the thorny plant patches.
I know that I’m responsible for this stick here, but not that stick
there. I am master of my own domain.
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