The Bermuda grass, which kinked and crawled and crept across the small row of lilies, seeming to spread three feet or more in a single season, is brown and dormant. Presumably, with the warmth of April—or maybe March—it will turn green again and continue growing.
Last year much of it died during the winter. According to the guy who works for Gottlob’s Landscaping, it was most likely due to the dearth of moisture. From October through much of March, we had almost no rain or snow. “Even though it’s dormant,” he said, “the roots still need water in the soil.” If that’s the key factor, this should be a banner year for Bermuda.
Per the Community Collaborative Rain, Snow & Hail Network, Cowley County, Kansas has recorded right at twelve inches of precipitation from September till now. Even though the yard is still mostly brown, there’s a tinge of green underneath the elm trees in the west yard. Some of the creeping fescue and red fescue that I sowed last summer is still holding on. It’s a thin stand but it’s enough to make me want to plant some more this year.
That’s the power of even modest success.
It gives us hope for the next effort. Even a little bit of stubborn green standing up in the lonely tones of mid-winter is enough to makes us think that it’s worth the long hours of working the dirt, planting the seed and watering its needs through the long hot summer. Even though the bigger part of what I planted last year didn’t survive, the part that did gives me hope for the work that is coming.
When we choose to focus on what good surrounds us, when we deliberately consider what has been blessed, when we decide to learn from the past, something as simple as grass can teach us a thing or two about moving ahead. Even in the most barren spans of our lives, we can usually find something that has thrived.
And keep pressing forward.