Thursday, June 6, 2013

Mary, Mary quite contrary

I have a confession to make. Until this weekend I wholeheartedly disagreed with Margaret Atwood. I know, I know, who am I a Ford? What's next, blaspheming Alice Monro? The truth is I've never been one to like getting my hands dirty. Even touching flour gives me the hebejebes. I love spending time outside, but I'd rather sit and read, or lay is the sun, or even kick a ball around than dig in the dirt. That is until I actually tried digging in the dirt.

On Sunday evening Jeff and I decided to tackle a few odd jobs in our backyard that we haven't gotten around to. Our to do list included planting the rest of our vegetable garden. Since I'm not much for mowing I volunteered. I put on old clothes and threw my hair into a pony, I can do this I thought to myself. I took a deep breath, knelt in the soil and dug my hands in. Guess what? Nothing happened. I didn't get chills up my spine like I do when I touch flour, I didn't see any rodents (which always feel like a clear and present danger), I didn't even mind when a few eight legged friends scurried around my spade.

A noticed a few things about gardening that I hadn't really thought of before this week. First, it is physical, I was glistening (read: a sweaty mess) by the end of it. Secondly, digging in the dirt felt therapeutic in the same way a good clean or a hard run is. You could take your stress out on that earth, that's for sure! And finally, gardening is ever so quiet an activity. When Jeff shut off the mower and he and I were just working away, I could hear birds, and the children playing a few houses up. It was nice. When we were done I showered and actual dirt came off my body, not gross city pigeon dust, rich dark soil. It felt good. I'm not going to give up my day job, but I think I'll join my mum in the garden more readily than before.

Have a lovely sunny evening friends.



image via: restored

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