In the time I’ve lived at this house, one thing I’ve not done at all is landscaping or yard work, other than basic mowing and weed eating. Partly because I couldn’t afford it, partly because I didn’t have the time, but mostly because I wasn’t inspired yet. My usual pattern with big projects, for interiors or exteriors, is to do nothing until I figure out the best path of action. That usually takes a long time but I trust the process. I’ve learned the hard way, too. I’m such a circular thinker that if I don’t wait at first, I’ll start things on an impulse, then a different impulse takes over and I’ll either abandon it or it morphs into something I don’t like anymore and I get hopelessly frustrated. It’s best to get my brain out of the way and let the space teach me what to do with it.
I’ve finally settled on what to do in the front yard. I knew all along that I wouldn’t be keeping the manicured turf grass that came with the house. Water’s becoming more precious by the minute around here, we pay a fortune for it, and anyone who uses it to keep turf grass alive is an idiot. I’ll be replacing it with a combination of native grass, limestone and river pebbles, and stepping stones in paths and wider paved patches, with larger native plants in groupings. I’m still sketching; I’ll start the heavy work in the cooler weather, then plant in the spring. I won’t get it done all at once, so I’m leaving the brown grass to hold the soil.
The sage above is the one plant I’ve put in the soil since moving here. Like me, it’s a transplant from the failed marriage. Not long before things went south, the ex and I had put a bunch of them in at the old place. I took some with me when I moved out, this was the only one that survived, and I’ll attest that it’s thrived largely on neglect. This is the fullest set of blooms it’s ever had, result of a couple of welcome rain showers a few weeks ago. With everything around burned and dried to a crisp, the luscious purple is heartening, reminding me to be patient.