Sort Of

I sort of have a lawn, so I sort of mow it.  There’s grass and other green things, mostly weeds, with flowers that are both pretty and annoying.  In the spring I mow with a gasoline mower, but the rest of the year I give my ears a break and use the push mower.  It doesn’t do that great of a job, but oh well, it sort of mows my sort of lawn.  Some lawns are well tended; no weeds, green, and lush, thanks to someone’s dedication.  I don’t have any desire to improve mine because it’s good enough for what I use it for.  My life is like my lawn.  I feel like I sort of have one, so I sort of take care of it, but the same logic shouldn’t make as much sense.  My life should never be good enough but the best it can be.  It should be well tended; nothing unwanted, very much alive, and full because of my dedication to it.  In the grand scheme of things, sort of mowing my lawn doesn’t matter, but in the ordinary scheme of my life, sort of living it, just won’t cut it at all (pun intended).


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