Here I am, in a photo that Gabe snapped a couple of days ago, expanding my garden with a pitchfork and a trowel.
It's a lot of work. Poking at the grass, lifting it in sections to separate the roots, shaking off the soil.
I really love growing things. I love my houseplants, and I loved my little and slightly unsuccessful garden last year. The process of preparing a patch of soil, dropping seeds in, and caring for the little sprouts to eventually pick and eat your own vegetables? Amazing.
The smell of the dirt is intoxicating. Finding bugs is exciting. I found the most magnificent worm the other day! He was long and shiny and I transferred him over to the compost pile, hoping he'd make a happy home there. Gabe, Liam and I watched him for a few minutes straight, captivated by the way he (she?) moved.
I'm expanding the garden so I can (in theory) grow more, and my dad is going to help me build a fence to keep out the small animals who stole my goods last year. Liam is just as emotionally involved in the garden as I am- yesterday he asked me repeatedly when we were going to head to the yard to "work the garden"- and he helps me in ways that he can, like moving little rocks and removing some of the dried grass and using his little hands to plant some seeds himself.
Having dirt all over my hands and watching things grow is downright spiritual to me. It's a gift. LIFE comes from the ground. We all have roots on the bottoms of our feet, sucking water and nourishment from the ground. Kneeling, hands in the soil, growing my own food with the help of my son- I feel like I am myself photosynthesizing and creating oxygen and growing deeper, thicker roots. I am sucking in the rain and soaking in the sun.
Living. Giving life.
And DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ABOUT MY COMPOST.