Art and writing and creativity – whatever that is – is subjective, which means it offers no good metric for success, and that means we rely on feedback, and when feedback doesn’t come it’s like the world has dropped from below us and we’re left scrambling to straighten our upturned confidence.

Today, I rediscovered a simple solution.

No phone. No e-mail. No Internet. No searching for confirmation. Nothing but sun. A cup of coffee. A walk. Some lunch. Maybe eggs Benedict. Some talking. Some friends. Some family.

Cut free from the grid and fire up the grill. Stand impressed, reminded; feedback doesn’t matter, life continues without it, and even an overcooked hamburger tastes better than whatever it was you were worried about in the morning.

I’ve never been one to complain about the weather, or to believe the phenomenon of spring fever, or to even think twice about the changing of the seasons and the banal conversations that travel along with it.

But pass some ibuprofen. I’m ready to put this winter behind me.

When I stop, he begins to move. He creeps forward, cautiously, as if he knows that, eventually, the red light will end and he’ll be forced to push back on his six legs and hold tight for a few more blocks.

After a few stops, he makes his way to the side of the car. He’s out of sight, but if I sit up a little straighter I can see him. He moves again, and I sit up even straighter. Now all I can see is his antennae. Stopped: straight up. Driving: 45 degrees.

He’s out of my sight, and I feel for him. What if he fell off? Will he be crushed? Will he know where he is? Should I drive slower? Does he have a home? I honestly kind of miss the guy, as if we made some kind of weird bond over the past mile and a half.

I pull into the driveway and he’s back. He starts scrambling. He moves faster than I’d imagined. He crawls across the hood, perching on the top, regarding the wipers with what I can only assume is fear and disdain. How many fellow bugs have been pushed aside with wipers like these, I’ll never know.

As I drive into the garage, he jumps.

I find him on the trunk when I get out. I flick him off and into the driveway so he can find his way back home.

Lumber stacks perfectly, is smoothed to perfection, trained and used to build something larger than itself. Its purpose is defined from the minute it is harvested, grown freely but ultimately chosen for sacrifice to the greater good.

Logs are rough, unkempt and ragged. Left without the same purpose as lumber, they’re allowed to grow larger, more gnarled. Sometimes they live their life as shade. As decoration. Or, in the wild, they simply form a small part of a larger forest.

As it performs its job, lumber is dead. Meanwhile, the trees that produce logs live up until the day nature strikes them down.

And despite their differences, in the end, when thrown to the fire, they burn the exact same way.

A blueberry is pale, with a subdued taste. It’s common. It’s boring.

A member of the same family, the huckleberry is tart and wonderful, every bite similar to what caviar must feel like.

Blueberries are typical. Huckleberries are rare. In fact, blueberries are often used in less particular creations that claim to be made with huckleberries. One huckleberry to every three blueberries – enough to keep everything legally “huckleberry-ish.” They cost a fortune when offered pure, and they’re almost as good when offered muddled.

They’re like gold. Except worth more, it seems.

Huckleberries can’t be grown in captivity.

They are a mystic fruit, dripping with old west legend. Their name is rustic in a way no other can claim. Nestled in the family tree next to the cranberry and the blueberry, they serve as a backwoods cousin.

Like homemade whiskey, they pucker your lips. You shudder, waiting for the next rude smack of insolvent country manner. Instead, you’re treated to a taste that blueberries still fight to attain.

Though I’ve grown up around both, only one carries the legacy of hand-picking, the plunk of a tin bucket as we wind our way through a wooded hill, speaking loud to keep the bears away and wondering if all of the work is worth it – if these few handfuls of berries will be able to ease our sore knees and purplish hands.

But a few handfuls are all you need. And yes, once paired with cream, or siphoned into jelly, it’s more worth it than any food you’ve had the trouble of fighting for.

You’d get in trouble for stealing a few, but Grandpa Boyer scolded in jest. After all, his lips had the same purple tint as yours.

They’re irresistible. And no amount of blueberries will ever suffice.

Simply put, the previous owners didn’t want to move either item. In regards to the playset, I don’t blame them. But this trampoline – who knows why it wasn’t moved.

I suspect because once you’ve got it up, it’s impossible to get rid of.

I never wanted a trampoline. Being a grumpy curmudgeon of a father, I assume trampolines are only good for raising your insurance rates and causing broken bones. Still, we gladly accepted the trampoline because we figured we’d sell it on a rummage sale and make a profit.

(A profit could be made because, as is customary, any non-crucial home items involved in the sale of a house are grouped together and sold for $1. Therefore, our trampoline was purchased for a fraction of that $1 – probably about $0.15.)

So it sat. And it sat. And no one really paid it much attention. Weeks went by before Sierra even realized its existence. A few more weeks, and we finally – for whatever reason – let Sierra hop on the trampoline.

Now, she loves it. ADORES IT. Wants to jump on it all the time. Has discovered the beauty of forced suspension – of being lifted off the ground at a level impossible without the aid of a springy tarp – and wants only to “GUMP GUMP BOOING BOOING.” Preferably while I sing the ABCs.

Thing is, this trampoline has been promised to someone else. We’ve already sold it, and we just need to get it off of the damned lawn, where it sits and ruins the yard like the constant trample of neighborhood children.

I hate the thing. Always have. Always wanted it gone; wanted that spot in the yard to be free and open, preparing for a garden or a fire pit or something, anything for the love of God that wasn’t a trampoline.

Yet, here we are. We still have the trampoline. And we’re moving farther away from the perfect moment to get rid of it. Because as Sierra’s devotion toward keeping it grows, my devotion to her happiness makes it harder to take away.

But more than that, I’ve been on a mini sabbatical, a rest from the world, respite from my constant wordsmithing. I’ve been recharging, as they say, and I won’t lie – I feel it.

I feel like I’m bursting with inspiration, my mind ready to take on the challenges of writer’s block. I feel like I’ve got things to say. Weekly and monthly columns to get around to. Books to pretend I actually read.

And, I feel relaxed. Probably for the first time since I stayed home with Sierra during my paternity leave. Relaxed, and thrilled about it.

With this relaxation, with the utter lack of responsibility and no need for critical thinking, I made some incredible realizations. Realizations that might seem banal, too simple to be revelations. But revelations all the same.

I realized that Washington D.C. isn’t a tourist paradise, but a legitimate amazing feat of urban design, mass transit and epic history. I realized that even the most hardened cynic can feel patriotic around the Lincoln Memorial. And I realized that after three years I still haven’t come to full terms with my grandfather’s death, a veteran of both the Vietnam and Korean wars, two wars memorialized in D.C. and located in close proximity for the maximum in emotional drainage.

I realized that history is unchanging, and that no matter how many layers of paint or remodeling jobs you do the ghosts of history still stand, watching you, Civil War caps tipped to the right, bayonets sagging under the weight of their ammunition, thousands of lives wasted for a quarrel, their remains creating the landscape that we trod upon.

I realized that 350+ pictures is probably enough.

I realized that a beer at noon tastes better than any consumed at night, that seafood pasta at home can reach restaurant like excellence and that the only thing you should do while on vacation is eat and drink and eat some more.

I realized that a week can easily be wasted just watching your daughter grow up.

Most of all, I realized that time off is necessary. That it’s healthy. That the problems of travel and close quarters and weather and delays and rising tension and lost productivity mean nothing when matched to the sheer expanse of soothing catharsis that comes from a few hours away from the grid. Or a few days. Or a week. Plus.

That’s all in the past, though. I’m back, and I’m glad.

Each car that drives by sounds like paper ripping. The rain is like a prolonged applause.

Thunder shakes the house. I jolt awake, but settle back to sleep knowing that there’s nothing better than opening up the windows, wide, to their fullest opening ability, and dozing off to the sounds of a thunderstorm.

Midnight dark, damp, cool and breezy. The occasional ruff from Becket. The sheets pulled up tight to stay warm.

Nothing says summer more than that.

At first it seemed nearly sacrilegious. Lazy. Elitist. Like hiring a maid. Or a chauffeur. I mean, if you’re going to go to the trouble of having a garden, why wouldn’t you do it yourself? Didn’t this defeat the purpose of a garden?

But I realized that, really, it’s not that different from, say, hiring a landscaper, or having someone mow your lawn. It’s all in the perspective. It’s something that those with money can enjoy – the fruits of a garden without the pain of gardening; the time weeding, the digging, the forgetfulness and subsequent failure.

(And trust me – as much as I enjoy getting out and picking weeds and digging in the dirt, it’s not something I drive myself to do every night. It’s one of those jobs that are surprisingly enjoyable once you’ve gotten yourself into the mood, but will sit dormant for weeks while you work up the nerve to get started. Time is an issue, yes. But so is desire.)

Even more, I realized that this organic gardening, while pretty cool, also creates summer jobs, lends itself to a greener city community and supports the organic movement. It is also pretty common. The only difference between the people featured in this article and, say, Kerrie and myself is that we don’t have the garden on our premises. Instead, it’s on a farm, several miles away.

We pay to have someone grow vegetables for us. Everyone who purchases a tomato in a grocery store pays to have someone grow vegetables for them, too. It seems like we’re doing them a favor, that we’re making their farm successful, that we’re the ones doing them a service. But it’s not. They’re doing us a service, we’re paying for it, and both sides benefit.

Just like these people who have organic gardeners. It’s not elitist or lazy or anything like that. It’s a pretty good idea, if you have the money.

Our haul was pretty good this week, and we went right to work using roughly two pounds of onions (unwillingly saved over the past two weeks) to make some delicious French onion soup. Delicious, as in, the best I’d ever tasted. Apparently, I can cook, if so driven.

(To be honest, it wasn’t French onion soup, but English onion soup with sage and cheddar, from Jamie Oliver’s new Food Network program Jamie at Home.)

In addition to the onions, we received.
Tomatoes
Beets
Potatoes
Carrots
Various peppers
Cucumbers
Cabbage
Green beans

Now, if only I could find someone who would cook the vegetables as well. We’d be in perfect shape.

When she left me to myself in the pakasandra I would sit on the mat she would give me – an old car floormat – and I would see the pakasandra and see the weeds among them and I would drift.

My hands would reach for the neck of a weed and I would pull, slowly, feeling the base, taking the soil with it, the gentlest of pulls, causing the faint snipping sound of the roots breaking; then it would come completely, I would fall back the smallest amount, the weed would bring soil with it and shower the pakasandra with black as I shook clean its roots. Then I’d toss it into the pile and move to the next weed.

Some required two hands. Sometimes I could do two at once. I was being paid by the hour and wanted to be in the pakasandra indefinitely. I was more thorough than I needed to be. By the end I was spending five minutes hunting for weeds remaining. I parted the pakasandra leaves to see of there were weeds beginning underneath. The dirt was so black and most. She watered it often.

And all the while I was caressing every wall of my head. I was wandering around my head, teary with joy, wistful even, loving the surfaces, the many rooms, the old rooms, and empty rooms.

–An excerpt from You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers

I always think of this excerpt when I’m weeding.

And then, I realize how much I enjoy weeding.

Sick, eh?

(Note: the proper spelling is Pachysandra. It’s a type of plant. No idea why Eggers spelled it that way.)