Dirt Therapy

I have discovered a new use for the Christmas lights that have been hanging on my house since the Christmas of 2001. No, it's not to wrap them around my husband's neck and strangle him because they're still there (although that is a thought). I used them this evening to light my way as I weeded my front flowerbed. I started at five and finished around eight. It was dark out the entire time, hence the need for lighting.

Yes, I realize its not Spring yet. Yes, I could see my breath as I yanked noxious weeds and joy of joys, discovered that what I call my flowerbed is in reality, my cat's bathroom; Unfortunately, I wasn't wearing garden gloves at the time.

But that's not the point. The point is that I have begun my dirt therapy for the year. It's my time alone. No one will bother me, because not one person living under my roof wants to work in the yard. I'm safe from interference, except for my husband who kept insisting that I come in and have some dinner, for crying out loud, and was I nuts? It's freezing out here, and shouldn't I have a coat on? As tempting as chocolate chip pancakes for dinner was (it was my six year-old's turn to make dinner), I begged off because I didn't want to come in to eat, get warm or put a coat on. I was happy outside playing in the dirt. Did I mention that it was quiet? It wasn't the dirt so much as it was the quiet. It gave me time to reflect upon things not generally reflected upon during my busy week.

Like why does my Black Lab dig up things in my cat's bathroom and... Uh, never mind. That really doesn't bear reflecting upon. But other things came to mind that did; like why did the transmission on my van blow exactly one month to the day that the warranty on it expired? Do they install a timing device when they give you a warranty that insures expiration before breaking down? Oh look, kitty's been over here by the rose bushes too. Hmm.

Running my fingers through the wet dirt I discovered that some of my bulbs were beginning to send up shoots. Maybe they wish it was Spring as much as I do. Oops, that was a flower stalk, not a weed. Well, it's not like I can see things very well in the dark with only Christmas lights for illumination. Weeds one, bulbs zero.

I realized that I was talking to myself, but decided not to let it make me feel silly. I mean, its not like being out in 38-degree weather in just a tee shirt and jeans, running my hands through kitty-doo and dirt in the semi-darkness is considered grounds for commitment. Oops, that wasn't a bulb, that was a kitty offering. Where's that dog?

Grimacing as I knelt on soggy grass, I thought about the microwave that just died and the dishwasher that refuses to wash dishes, but is fully capable of baking food on dishes with such force that it's removable only with a sand blaster. I'm considering tossing everything and just buying paper plates.

Ah, lovely wet dirt, therapy for my soul. Peace and quiet and time to ponder the fact that if I removed all the dead plants and broken planters that have adorned my front porch for months, it might induce my immediate neighbors to believe that we weren't actually trailer trash. Of course that would mean I'd have to scrub off the remnants of last summer's plum fight from the front of the house as well. But I know that once I start I won't be able to stop. It's like when you wipe off a spot on a cupboard door in the kitchen; it becomes readily apparent that there is now a clean streak in the middle of all the grime. Does this mean I'll have to scrub the entire front of my house? Uh oh, that wasn't a bulb I just picked up.

Dirt therapy is something I heartily recommend to all of you. Take some time to get in touch with nature, to commune with Mother Earth. Send your bare hands deep into the dark earth and you'll come away with more than just dirt under your nails that won't come out no matter how hard you scrub. You will come away with peace of mind, a slight case of hypothermia, and a life long aversion to Almond Roca. That darn cat.