Why do anything at all?

“Why do anything at all?” my daughter asked. Though it was a very reasonable question it still startled me since I’d not considered that option. We were standing at the bottom of the set of steps that led to the upper garden area (“the back forty,” we called it). The twenty steps were made of old railroad ties in the front with gravelly soil overgrown with weeds behind them. My idea was to dig out the soil behind the ties to a depth of about 5 inches, lay down landscaping fabric, then fill the holes with fresh gravel.

As Emily aptly pointed out, this scheme would involve a great deal of work. A much easier alternative would be to simply pull the weeds. But as we agreed, that would be a very temporary fix because the weeds were embedded in hard dirt and gravel. Thus they couldn’t be cleanly removed and would begin to grow back as soon as they were plucked. My plan of deep excavation-and-replacement would be a more satisfying long-term solution. But still, the weeds would inevitably return. So why do anything at all? Particularly since despite the luxuriant crop of weeds, the steps were quite easy to negotiate.

Emily shrugged and wandered off. Simply doing nothing seemed the rational and appealing course. While contemplating doing nothing, I picked up my shovel and gave it a few hefts. Then I idly poked at the dirt and started digging into step number one. I found myself getting into a pleasing rhythm. There was something unexpectedly satisfying about biting into the gravelly dirt, extracting a little weed village, and chucking it into the nearby wheelbarrow with a resounding thunk.

Then, to my surprise, I decided to activate my initial plan, and resolved to do two steps a day. The more I did, the more compelling the process became. In fact, after finishing the big dig behind the railroad tie of the second step, I found I couldn’t stop. Up came the weedy soil of step number three, then four, then five. And in addition to the digging, I found unexpected pleasure in maneuvering the loaded wheelbarrow into the woods and tipping out its contents to fill a convenient depression in the earth. I thought about how the foreign material would settle into its new home and become a breeding ground for the adherent weeds, soon becoming indistinguishable from the earth around it.

So I dug and I dug. After several hours of steady shoveling, I suddenly realized that all twenty steps had been mined. But I still couldn’t stop. Now it was time to begin filling in the pits behind the railroad ties. First, I had to put down the landscaping cloth to prevent weeds from creeping up from below. So I unrolled the cloth on the front deck, and with a chalk stub sketched out the area I wanted to cover. It was so quiet that I could hear the scratch of the chalk as I drew it across the black fabric. Then, as I cut along the line, a gentle puff of white dust was thrown up, which delighted me. The scissors made a soft honking noise, which rhymed with the sound the Canada geese down by the water. As I drew and cut, I felt a deep sense of peace.

Reverently, I placed the fitted cloth at the bottom of the first step. Then I grabbed two plastic buckets and filled them with ¼ minus basalt gravel, which was waiting for me in the driveway, in the bed of my pickup. With some effort I lugged the heavy buckets back to the steps, poured their contents into the hole, and repeated the process until the gravel was level with the wood in front of it. Carrying those buckets back and forth reminded me of my time doing medical work at a refugee camp in northern Uganda. Throughout the day there was a steady procession of people transporting incredibly heavy buckets of water for several kilometers, from a well back to their tents. Of course, the buckets were far heavier than mine, only women did this work, and the women often carried them on their heads. While toting the gravel I was somehow communing with those hard-working women. And felt in awe of them.

I cut more cloth, carried more gravel, and filled more holes. After finishing step number six I was getting pretty hungry, so finally stopped. The waiting dinner, made by my sweet wife, was delicious, and I went to bed feeling quite satisfied.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast I was back at the steps. The routine was now very familiar, and the rhythm of the work even more pleasing. By midday the job was done. The weedy steps had been transformed into smooth, gray gravel behind dark wood. I marched up and down to test them out—lovely! Were the sleek, unform steps any easier to navigate than the former weedy ones? Well, no, not really. But was I still glad that I had done all the work? Absolutely.

So it turns out that my response to Emily’s question wasn’t rational. Doing nothing would have saved time, money, and blisters. But still. The work was very satisfying. It gave me good exercise and allowed me to commune with things I might otherwise have missed. I will long remember the sensations and feelings I experienced—the subtle sound of the scissors cutting the landscape cloth, and the puffs of ejected chalk dust as it was severed. Becoming aware of the honking geese. Feeling connected to those heroic Ugandan women toiling with their heavy buckets of water. And the sense of accomplishment as I regarded my twenty beautiful steps. Sometimes I think, it’s reasonable to do things that are completely unnecessary.