2014 is my third year of gardening, and still, every time I plant seeds, I harbor a certain secret disbelief that they will ever sprout and grow something beautiful. So many things have to work just right for the little guys to ever poke their heads above the soil, let alone feed my family. Every year they manage to poke out, though, and I get excited over each one of them. I relish the work that goes into helping my seedlings thrive – whether it’s pulling weeds, releasing ladybugs, experimenting with bad-bug-fighting spray recipes, keeping the dog away, or trudging the early morning trudge from my cozy bed to the front yard garden beds (gracing the public with a glorious view of my inexplicable hair and white, white legs).
When I snap my first spring pea out of its cutesy little pod and pop it into my mouth, all the sore muscles and early mornings are worthwhile. Maybe not in monetary value, but in gratification, that moment of excitement and incomparable taste pays for every hour and dollar I spent on toil and soil instead of a movie or a good bottle of wine. (Let’s be real: I bought the wine, too.) It’s worth it to me. My wish is that everyone could carve out from what they have been dealt a life that allows them to spend time and energy on what is worthwhile to them – those things that make the investment and the exhaustion a pleasure.
I am offering no solutions here; just my own journey. For me, moving this direction has comprised a strong sense of determination, a supportive partner (and I mean SUPPORTIVE), and a willingness to fail at a lot of things that were expected of me, or that I expected of myself, to eventually reach a point where I’m happy that I feel purposeful with my hands in the dirt. Not happy because all the components of life are perfectly in place – just happy because my hands are in the dirt, and they feel at home there.
Selah. Namaste. Amen. You get the idea.