40 in thirty-eight: Find Your Soil

And the days keep flying by, and one week from tomorrow, my baby turns 7 and I'm that much closer to 40 and we leave for Rome. That's another story for another day, not least because it's overwhelming to think of packing. Which, as you likely know, I loathe doing.

Today was breathtakingly beautiful- sunny, warm, breezy, not humid. It was perfect, really; the sort of spring day for which we've all been pining with increasing intensity as of late. 

I worked in the yard for as many spare minutes as I had, ripping out the insidious ivy that looks nice until you realize it's suffocating all your other plants and threatening to take over your yard a la The Blob. 

Despite my awareness that we're not yet past the possibility of a temperature dip into the frostly region, I went to the nursery for some herbs, arugula and flowers. Just a few things, just enough to keep the work needed to plant them in a reasonable realm, just enough to brighten the yard and start making it feel like ours. Just enough to sate my appetite.

Yards and gardens are like blank canvasses. They'll happily remain bare, colored in only by what occurs naturally be it ivy, weeds, or dust. But they'll also provide a thrilling slate on which to paint, if you're so inclined. 

I can tell this yard has been treated with chemicals and wasn't ever loved in the way I loved my last yard and gardens. I haven't yet found an earthworm, and Jack got a blazing rash after rolling in the grass yesterday; his sensitive skin has always been a bellwether for what is tender and what is not. 

So, there is work to be done, and that thrills me, for where do I lose myself so amnesiacally as I do in the soil? Nowhere really except perhaps in words. 

This is my bit of wisdom for you today, three days into the 40 in forty countdown: Find your soil. 

Putz and dally, look under and in, try and come up short, dip your toes in and find the grail. Do whatever you can to find your soil, the loamy black goulash into which you can pour your feelings, worries, hopes and frustrations. Into which you can knead your anger, sadness, joy and secrets. 

Find the soil in which you lose track of time and place and need to set an alarm so you don't forget to pick your kids up from school. Find the bit of earth in which you literally do not care how hot, sweaty, smelly and dirty you are because you're so deeply lost in the happy trance that plot fosters.

When I was little, I hated being dirty. I did not enjoy sweating, and I loathed bugs. In short, yard work was most definitely not my cup of tea. But I've always loved flowers (Nanny and Mom always had/have fresh flowers in their homes, mostly those they grew/grow themselves) and I've always seen how much satisfaction my parents and Nanny derived from working in their gardens.

When Tom and I moved into our first non-apartment home, we had a small backyard. Maybe it was nesting, maybe I was avoiding something, maybe I just wanted it to be pretty. I don't know but I planted flowers, and they grew and made me happy every day. I've been gardening like a fool since.

My thumb isn't totally green yet: inexplicably I am incapable of growing basil and rosemary which for most people are akin to weeds that require zero thought or tending. But I'm coming along, and I am telling you that when we moved, we left approximately 9 zillion fat and happy earthworms wriggling through the organic yard I'd turned it into. I enjoyed every bit of the process. 

I found my soil. Find yours!