Saturday nights when she was in her 20s, my mother's friends would creep up and put an ear to the door of her house to listen for moving furniture. If they heard it, they crept away, praying all the while she wouldn't catch them and make them help.
So I guess I come by it naturally, the urge to rearrange the furniture every few months. I've done this so many times inside my house there isn't one more variation to try, and you'd think I'd have been happy to be outside it this morning planting new plants and shifting around the old ones.
And you'd be wrong. You don't get muddy and horrible in a living room. You don't have to find new homes for slugs, either, and you definitely don't have to be friendly with passers-by through a face caked in dirt and hair tugged out of its clips.
I'm still not done. But I will be this weekend (or rather, wherever the garden sits on Monday at 3pm, the garden stays for the winter), and then I will take the camera for a walk along the paths to show it all off and I will remember to post the pictures here, and everything.