Wheelbarrow Party Jam

It’s mulch season, so you know what that means.

Wheelbarrow Party Jam.

That’s right. Loads and loads of mulch carted by wheelbarrow from Mulch Mountain to various destinations around the yard, all of it set to music. Mulch Mountain, situated near the end of the driveway, is a very new mountain range—like a week old—and steams when you look at it. (Blushing?) The wheelbarrow, on the other hand, is near death but insists on leaving this world with nothing left to give, which I admire. The music (the center locus of The Jam) blares from the portable speaker that my husband won from the family Christmas grab bag game one year, which I now own.

This is the Party Jam.

But what is the Party Jam? It is me singing and dancing with abandon in my yard without the shame of any age group, and the cats following me everywhere until they collapse on the ground by my side.

Them, softly asleep in the warm sun.

Me, jamming.

Mulch, flung around, but also gently arranged.

The neighborhood, infused with classic rock, bluegrass, folk. Pop, rap, piano jazz. All of it.

There is never ever a time when I don’t love a Wheelbarrow Party Jam. It has all the ingredients of my favorite things on the planet:

The outdoors. Moving around. Crossing stuff off my list. Aesthetics. Pals. Music. Dancing. Jolly vibes.

You figure I probably do it all the time, right? I don’t. The truth is, I forget to throw this singularly effective party for myself when I need it most. Some seasons it takes me weeks before I realize I have this highly motivating option right at my fingertips, and pitchfork.

The Party Jam isn’t always what I think of first when I look out my window and see Mulch Mountain or see the many tasks calling my name like a hysterically, demanding audience. Nope. Instead, what I think is that the work will never end, and it will defeat me. I’m as good as defeated.

I will stand motionless in my kitchen, looking through the window at my yard, teacup nearly to my lips, and whisper in a gaunt rasp, “You win.”

But I’m a lousy general, a starless general, because I mistake a potential party jam for a conflict. The conflict, it turns out, is all in my head. Unbeknownst to me at those very moments are my music speaker, wheelbarrow, pitchfork, and garden gloves all clandestinely texting each other this:

Hooz ready to parrrr-tay?

Ready. But waiting.

Does she know there’s a party here?

I think she forgot.

Someone flop onto the ground to remind her. Look pathetic.

On it!!

Then soon it happens. I’m reminded that I have options for a fun life. As I walk to the shed to get something for the cats, I notice the pitchfork somehow fallen onto the flowerpots and suddenly I remember,

Oh. The party jam. Duh.

Within days I’m taxiing mounds of fresh mulch from driveway to yard, my music speaker sitting atop the shredded wood blaring the tunes, and I’m happy once again about the things I need to do. I’ve turned a burden into a joy.

One of the main features of a mulch party jam is that there is not one care in the world for how long it takes, this mulching. It isn’t even on the mind. The longer the better because--of course you know—a wheelbarrow party jam is something you never want to end. It’s not the means to an end. It is the end. Its beautiful process is a regal, smiling, waving queen that rules over fretting, demoralizing, obsessing, defeating, and procrastinating. This is the kingdom of enjoying.

If I go to battle on Mulch Mountain, I am in a blender swirl of drudgery, like churning rotten fruit, kvetching and staggering around my yard with the Mountain loaded on my back. And I am not friends with that Mountain.

If I go to party on Mulch Mountain, well, suffice it to say, the world becomes a party of strawberry and mango, each a dazzle, which I pop into my mouth as I ask the mulch, “You want to dance?” The mulch always desperately gratefully accepts, because the rest of its life will be stuck on the ground. I am now best friends with that Mountain.

My Party Jam is such an effortless way to arrive at novel solutions to nagging problems. It’s a jubilant way to gain insight into my Why’s of the day, week, month. I generate appreciation for my plusses and understanding of my minuses while I do my creaky boogie-woogie in muddied shoes in the backyard where the birds are collecting to watch, beaks gaping. My brain and heart are receptive to positivity because I’m enjoying my work instead of fighting it. All of this pushes me a step forward instead of a step back. Plus, as an added benefit, it makes the birds (and fox peeking from the bushes, probably) amused. I don’t mind. I’m half showing off for them anyway.

If you want to have your own Wheelbarrow Party Jam, or any kind of Jam, there is party prep to consider. First, the guest list.

Guest list: Don’t get ahead of yourself by exploding your guest list to the size of a metropolitan region. This list includes you and . . . . that’s it. This is your very own, very tailored, very specific party for you. You’re the guest of honor too, btw. This prep should not take you long.

Invites: You don’t need fancy invites from an expensive printer. Just be friendly. Make it a gentle ask. Don’t intimidate with mention of how many famous people are expected to attend because, honestly, nobody at all is coming except for you. This is just the right size party for the one person who is going to show up. If you want, you can do what I do and ask your invitee with a little tickle on the cheek and say, “You want to come to the Party? Tickle tickle?” Or not. Maybe not.

Food: Food is a big one, but we’re not talking food you eat here. The food you’ll serve at your Party Jam will be food for thought. And you don’t want to skimp. Go extravagant. Here’re some dishes:

Where’s The Fun? This is a recipe which includes the fun parts of the work you dread. There’s probably something fun or interesting hiding somewhere in there. But if there isn’t, what can you add that will make it more palatable? Think.

What’s The Plus? This is a party favorite. It’s a delectable combination of what you’ll get out of accomplishing this burdensome (real or imagined) commitment, and how it’ll change your life. Yum.

What If? What if you were near the end of your life but still had to accomplish this task? How would you handle it then? Where would you extract the meaning from it? I personally love this dish.

Decorations: Just as with food, decorations for these types of parties are not the traditional streamers draping the doorway and nearby plant. These are badges of honor—of the honor you are paying to yourself for attempting to grow success by way of better engagement; and for wisely flipping the narrative that a win is only arduous. Remember to wear these decorations to the party. They will show the world how serious you are about living your life more fully. And by all means, wear clothes too.

As soon as you’re ready, send your guest the invite and wait for the RSVP. Stand there and wait until she or he reads it and looks up at you and says straight to your wondering face, “I’m a Yes. 100%.”

This is when you accept with graciousness in a rock-and-roll sort of way. “Alrighty, let’s get this party started!” Maybe you will add a little air guitar in there, too. Or not. But you should.

There’s plenty to read out there on motivational strategies, so no need for me to add to that here. This is a how-to on throwing yourself a fabulous party to celebrate the things you don’t want to do. Everything needs a party, but especially that. If I can remember what an ace I am at throwing mulch parties, then I can count on being invited to a whole slew of rather lavish ones each Spring. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m also fairly accomplished at throwing other kinds of parties, like writing parties, computer drudgery parties, exercise parties, and errand parties. Now that I’m telling you all of this, I must say, I’m quite the party girl.

There are telltale signs that you’ve thrown a great party. If you climb back up on the positivity horse after being flung off, that’s a great party. If the party delivers you to a happier, more fascinated, focused, or purposeful place: really great party. If you walk out of there with a reframe of your circumstances, outlook, or even life--whoa. That was a fantastic party.

The other day I did find myself at a Wheelbarrow Party Jam. I arrived, got myself situated, and settled into the music. Then I slowly tilted my eyes to the lush plants and flittering birds, to the clouds creeping along through the tree canopy, to the bellies of the planes flying low overhead, to the interesting ideas that began to flood my mind for things to do with the yard—I shifted into an embrace of what was before me. I was present. I began to hum and nod my head to the tunes. I filled my wheelbarrow, wheeled it around, dumped it, and cheerfully went back for more. Interestingly, it became my favorite part of the day.

While the Party Jam was party enough, I decided to throw myself a post-party party—just to celebrate some more. This was a more subdued party, but not any less enjoyable. I grabbed my water bottle and then relaxed into a chair in my yard and looked out onto what I’d accomplished. I was deeply pleased, happy, and proud. I heard myself say, “You get this as the prize for having fun??” As my husband likes to say, double-plus good.

Have a great week, friends, and party on.