My Digging Day

With a few weeks under my belt, I am feeling settled into my new place. I am acquainted with each room; the walls now have something of "me" on them; and the smells that greet me when I walk in the door are, thankfully, familiar (three candles and a "birthday cake" air freshener later). I have picked up some old routines (wheat thins with cheese at my desk after work), and I have started some new ones (spending time in my kitchen making too much food for just one person). In short, I am starting to believe I am home.

One place I hadn't tinkered with too much yet was my front yard (a liberal term for a very small piece of grass). So with a few Saturday hours to spare this weekend, I started washing windows and squirting down shutters; and despite their not looking much different after, it still felt good to work on something that looked like it needed my help. The last thing I left for myself was my very sad-looking flower garden, which hadn't been remembered by anyone for more than a year. So, on my hands and knees and with my untied shoe laces soaking in the wet dirt, I dug around every weed I could for more than two hours. And surprisingly, in the middle of my fingernails becoming marinated in mud, I realized that my insides were smiling, and smiling wide. I couldn't help but feel like I was preparing for something with all of my digging and changing and creating, and that perhaps something good, something fulfilling, something magnificent was soon coming my way.

This hopeful, almost magical feeling stayed with me all weekend. And I welcomed it with a kid-sized hug. I am grateful for any moment in life when instead of wanting to pull the covers over my head in the morning, I have the urge to rip them off with great enthusiasm for the day. I am grateful that my very center is telling me that all of my work and effort, the digging and pulling, are about to lead to something great.

After all, flowers grow from where dirt used to be.