There’s something about yardwork that has a way of exposing both our ambition and our limitations.
The other day, we found ourselves deep in discussion about rocks. Not just a few bags but six yards of them.
Six.
What were we thinking?
Somewhere between the planning and the reality, we both felt an uneasiness settle in. It didn’t feel quite right. So we stopped, talked it through, and scaled it back to one yard.
One yard sounds much more like us these days.
It’s funny how our ideas haven’t aged a bit, but our bodies gently remind us that they have. We get these big ideas for projects we would have tackled without hesitation a few years ago, and now comes that inner voice:
“Did you consider your back?”
“What about that torn rotator cuff?"
We’re learning, slowly but surely, that while we can still do many things, we can’t do everything the way we used to. And if we’re honest, that realization doesn’t come easily. We both don't like other people working on our home. We do it ourselves. Maybe it's because we both came from families who pushed through, fixed things themselves, and rarely stopped to consider whether they should. They just did. There’s a kind of pride in that, a grit that’s hard to let go of. It just goes against my grain to hire outside help. It's like it's cheating.
Like it or not, there’s also wisdom in knowing when to step back.
Because in the end, these house projects? They’re not eternal. They don’t define us. And they certainly aren’t worth wearing ourselves down over. It’s taken some time to see that clearly.
I was reminded of this lesson last year with something as simple as paint. We had a new garage door installed and carefully chose a trim color that was supposed to match. Only… it didn’t. Not quite. Close enough for some, but not for me. I tend to notice those things. My husband, on the other hand, was perfectly content to leave it as is.
And there I was, standing at the crossroads of “Is this worth it?”
He would have repainted it if I had pushed hard enough. But should I have? It would have made me sound spoiled and entitled. Again, the truth is, nothing in this life is ever going to be perfectly matched, perfectly aligned, or perfectly finished.
So why do I let it
work me up?
Maybe it’s pride. (ouch) Perfectionism? Maybe it’s that quiet concern about what others might think. Do the neighbors notice? Do they think we're color blind?
And then comes the freeing thought:
Who cares?
It doesn’t look bad. It just doesn’t look perfect.
Even now, when I pull into the driveway, I still see it. That slight mismatch. That tiny imperfection. But I’m learning not to let it steal my peace. I have to remind myself that perfection isn’t the goal.
Peace and contentment in the not-so-perfect is.
Gratitude for what we can do, instead of frustration over what we can’t.
So we’ll keep working in the yard. We’ll keep dreaming up projects - just maybe on a smaller scale. We’ll listen a little more closely to our bodies, and a little less to that inner critic that demands everything be just right, and maybe we'll have to swallow our pride and hire a helper for some of the projects.
One yard of rocks at a time feels just about right.
