waking up the dirt

Stuck, stuck, unstuck, repeat. Read, look, scroll, scan, repeat.

I said that what I’d do at my parents’ apartment was read. I was going to read and finish the book I’ve been reading since before this began, finally. I would not come to my reading after an entire day and attempt to read more than two pages before my eyelids got heavy and I put the bookmark back in.

Instead of reading, I spent two hours moving dirt. I wanted to wake up the ground, wake up the earth. I wanted to move and shift and shake things loose. I wanted to nearly put my back out. I wanted to have the day end with sore hands and tired legs.

Well, here I am and my hands are covered in tiny cuts that sting. They’re super dry and dirt seems to have been absorbed completely into the first layer of my skin. This is the result of pulling deep roots out of the soil with my bare hands over and over. I pulled hard; I talked to the ivy as I ripped it out of the corners of the garden. I collected tiny pieces of shattered glass and errant rock and made small categorized piles on along the wall to throw away later. I moved good dirt to new places and mixed it in. Worms were turned over and awoken and I folded them back into the dark. I used a pitchfork for the big moves, that claw thing to pull up the top layer, a trowel to turn the hard stuff — the sound of a trowel hacking through hard damp soil is top ten for me.

I didn’t think about a thing. Not once. Wait. That’s not true. Once, I thought of Monty Don and Big Dreams, Small Spaces and what he would suggest I do with this garden I’ve been temporarily given stewardship of. I have honeysuckle dreams, I have hosta hopes. Big hosta hopes. Giant ones. I can see the herb garden tall and green and moving in the slow summer breeze. Under the deck I shook the flipped-upside-down baby pool to make sure nothing was living underneath. We’re going to need it later.

It’s hard not to get ahead of myself, but there’s still the possibility of a frost and planting must wait. Spring, you have excellent metaphorical timing. There is possibility and promise, but of what, we don’t know. Will the zinnia seeds I acquired from my neighbor turn into flowers? Will the parsley seeds on my windowsill actually sprout? How long do I have to wait? The calendula is getting ready already. The celery stump and the romaine stem are happy just growing in water. I have hope.