Getting My Hands Dirty

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How long has it been? The last time I put my hands into some soil must have been spring of 2009 as I weeded my rose  garden in Indiana preparing to move yet again to a remote part of Kentucky. The lilac bush I had planted the year before was in bloom, the roses were doing well and the tulips had come and gone leaving me with a feeling as stripped and spent as their bare stalks, testaments to what once was and what shall rise again.

I was not going to go another summer without some fresh home grown by me tomatoes. And some eggplant and peppers thrown in. I have to find another area for the butternut, yellow and zucchini squash I love. The local Home Depot did not have these plants available so I will have to seek out a feed store. Lucky me.

Truly, lucky me.

I am also looking for a confederate jasmine plant.

My herbs sit waiting also. Sweet basil, peppermint (gotta have mint juleps, baby!) parsley some patchouli if I can find it.

The sun on my back, my hands filthy as I shunned gardening gloves this time around, my mind emptying of all the recent worries, traumas and dilemmas the day presented replaced by a humming of my soul, a melody that is ever present on the edges of my conscious, shoved to the last locked attic of my being let out only in times like this day, when it is calm and peaceful and stress has packed her bags.

 

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