There is another house I see on my usual walk. This is on the side of the street where the newer, bigger homes are. There is an unbearable monotony about their perfection. This one like its neighbors has a yard treated with chemicals to the point not one weed is in sight. There was no breeze today and the trees were still like they were made of plastic. They have a couple of nice cars in the driveway no sign of kids.
I want to imagine who lives in this perfect house where nothing is out of place. I imagine the inside is just as immaculate as the yard. The woman must never have a bad hair day and the man must be a lawyer. For some reason a lawyer comes to mind. The woman I think is a doctor. This is a house whose care is outsourced - inside and out. Whoever lives here values perfection and is willing to pay for it. They live here but their lives are probably elsewhere.
I compare this yard to mine where the weeds are growing adamantly and profusely. They have a mind of their own. My yard is alive not synthetic and comatose like this one. I have no perfection in my life and truth be told, I am not pursuing it with a messianic zeal. I would like more perfection but lack the courage to seek it. Often the threshold of pain must be breached for perfection to follow - it is the slow, organic and painful way. No different than me trying to pull the recalcitrant weeds in my yard.