One of these days I'm going to have to admit to myself, and therefore to the world (or, as David called it when he was little, the weirld. What's your favorite restaurant, David? "Pizza Weirld." He also pronounced almost with an h at the beginning. "Are we hawmos' there?" Actually, he was more likely to say, "We're hawmos' there." He was always so sure of everything that he didn't have to ask questions. You didn't tell him, he told you.)
Uh, where was I? Oh yeah, admitting to the world that all this digging I'm doing is accomplishing next to nothing. I dig and dig and dig, and all I have is a yard with a lot of overturned earth in it. Every so often I'll dig up a root I can toss in the yard waste container, but the ground is so rocky that I don't have many options. That's okay, because I have no idea what those options are in the first place.
The yard work I've done lately has been pretty much an exercise in— well, in exercise. Exercise for the sake of exercise, and not with any goal in mind other than, when someone asks me if I worked in the yard today, to be able to say, "Yes, Mom."
Meanwhile, the grasses in the yard are slowly but relentlessly assuming their former height and density. You can't keep a hardy grass down. Not unless you work at it, anyway. I've been remiss, and a bit lax, since the gardener was here with his magic mower a few weeks ago.
The grass and weeds are at the point now that they get higher when you start trying to pull them up out of the ground. I could make things a whole lot worse just by trying to make them better. To me, that's a good enough reason to leave well enough alone.