There simply is not enough time. I panic and move faster through another day, tackling the stacks set before me.
This time every year I get the itch to plant a garden, but, “…there are children to care for, grades to issue, dishes to wash and clothes to fold, dinner, emails, phone calls…”
This past weekend Sara taught me to dig for sunshine, to be warmed by dirt.
Just as my dear country mouse (I am admittedly jealous) was about to get into her little car and escape this city, she looked at me with that gleam in her eye and said, “Let’s do it…”
The next thing I knew I was in the garden furiously dumping ancient dirt from garden containers. Topsy turvey.
We moved on to tackle weeds that sprung up around the edges of the fence where we would be moving the containers so that afternoon sun will tempt vines to crawl up twine and drip with snap peas. But the problem was, fun as this moment was, as much as I wanted to be in the garden, especially with my friend, checklists were flashing in my mind.
I was grabbing at weeds hand over fist when I came to a plant that was flowering—yellow blossom—I paused, “Pretty.” I was mesmerized until I remembered it was a weed that would that would turn to thistle and stick to my socks. I yanked it out and noticed that the checklists haunting me disappeared.
So what’s up with that?