Ode to Dirt in my Nails

It's hard to explain why hours and hours of hard work in the sun and wind can be so utterly satisfying. Healing even.

Oklahoma, this April weekend, turned out to be a great place to be outdoors. So I pretty much lived outside all day Saturday and for a while on Sunday. When I'm working in my garden or the yard I can breathe and I can think.

I spent most of the time making wire fencing arched covers over the curved rows I've planted to keep the wild critters from eating everything before it has a chance to grow, and to keep my big-footed giant dog from walking through it, leaving huge paw craters in the tiny lettuce sprouts.

I planted a few more flowers. As usual. I'm really gonna stop now. Planting more flowers and veggies, that is. It's getting hard to keep up without a better system of watering, and without a few more free hours in my work week.

It's a combination of creative thought and physical labor that makes it a pleasure. It's the miracle of seeds producing little sprouts, producing leaves producing blossoms and fruit. It's the sun and the wind on my skin. It's the taste of a sweet pea, or a warm tomato straight from the vine.



It's participating in something that has endured for millenia, but is fresh every morning when the sun sparkles on the water spray over the deep green of that cabbage that mysteriously grew three inches since yesterday and the goose bumps rise on my arms from the cool morning breeze and dew on my shoes.