"Too wet to plow, too windy to haul rocks," we like to say here in the Midwest, pretty much every chance we get. But today it's true, so here I am instead of out there, where I'd rather be.
I don't care if you think I'm crazy. I'll flip the pages of seed catalogs and draw garden beds until I can’t stand it anymore, and then while the snow’s still on the ground, I'll walk around in the yard looking at all the stuff that’s not coming up.
I've got it bad--the dirt lust. When I was barely big enough to hold a trowel, my mother had me digging holes. I think was the pansies that got me--purple, white, yellow, velvety. “Each one has a different face,” my mother said. “Look,” I said, ever the pessimist, “that one’s frowning.” Still, I loved it.
To me, it's bliss to spend five or six hours raking and picking up sticks. It's a rare form of contemplation, as close to prayer as I can get. As I pull away the dry leaves, I bless and admire every little green shoot that's managed to poke up. Afterwards, I go inside and take my Red Wings off, pour myself a nice big glass of Chardonnay, and stare out the window, thinking in possibilities.
According to HGTV, Victory Garden, and P. Allen Smith, anyone who has a pot and a bag of MiracleGro can garden, but truthfully, it’s not that easy. It's a big responsibility to push against the force of entropy. Good not to go alone. Best to apprentice yourself to someone who can hunker down, squeeze up a clod of dirt, and tell you what it means.