I’ve been trying to write a post for several days now, and it’s been slow going. Usually I get my thoughts out there on the page at high speed, do a little proof reading, and hit ‘publish.’ But this time, I keep stalling. But for some reason, it’s important to me to put my half-formed thoughts out there, even if they don’t quite make sense. And I’ll need to return to this topic, I think, when the time is right.
I spent all weekend digging in the dirt. And several more hours during this past week. And most of last weekend. I seem to be obsessed right now with digging in the dirt.
Because it’s my dirt.
My project is pretty straightforward. We bought a house on an acre of land and I want to get it all seeded with native grasses and wildflowers that will come up this spring. So a few square feet at a time and all by hand, I’m aerating it, scattering a mix of native grass and wildflower seeds, and tamping the soil back down. And I’m falling in love with each little section as I work it.
I’m obsessed with digging right now. And it’s because of the beauty to come. In my mind’s eye, I can see the flax flowers, the poppies, the penstimen, the fescues. I can see the bees and butterflies and hummingbirds that will come to visit.
It’s about transformation. It’s about magic. It’s about beauty I’m creating, and beauty that will come about through forces that are beyond me.
It’s about rooting myself to this little piece of earth I call my home.