Laying in the grass, eyes closed, earth beneath my back, music in my ears, breeze playing across my skin.

Sitting in the shade, listening to a podcast, pulling weeds out from between the stones around a swimming pool. The gloves I’ve borrowed are comfortably soft. I uproot thistles that burn, fat plantain leaves with tap roots that grow deep and don’t let go, something with a square stem and yellow flowers and shallow roots growing tall and prpud, altogether too much stubborn quack grass. The sun blazes on my back. Sweat is dripping, trapped between my skin and my clothes. The gardener’s profession is an old one. I am pleased to have something to share with our Samwise Gamgee and the rest. Still not sure why we spend so much time trying to create patches of land free from overgrowth – so that we can notice it for a few moments when we walk by? There must be a reason.

If I must do arbitrary tasks in the service of people who are willing to exchange work for the funds I need to get by, then it might as well happen out of doors in the summer.