I’ve been out in the garden, planting.
Digging holes in the earth, feeling how long it’s been since I’ve connected with the soil and unrestrained, living things. Suddenly, as I water in the new plants, tears flow.
Is my focus on healing my arm since February any different than digging in the earth? I put labels on it as “not as good as expected” or “not happening fast enough.”
But are the healing of bones and the growing of roots really that different? Both allow the flow of something else, Something deeper than I can imagine, or label, or assign a value.
Still, there is something about the richness of life in a handful of Earth that connects me to a portal of life, love. There is something to be said for digging deeper and deeper still—not to get anywhere, but for the pleasure of digging in soft, black soil. Nothing is necessary, really. And there is something to be said for weeping with gratitude for what I can do, instead of longing for what I cannot yet do.
When nothing is necessary, what is possible?