I love to weed the beds by hand. Low, beneath the breeze that shakes a scratch into the leaves of the podocarpus and thrusts a rustle through crisp iris blades, I scoop ungloved fingers into the blackness, squeeze the moist grit, watch it build a stain on my skin, feel the moisture being transferred from my body into the earth. Part of me will nourish spouts, grow into something of substance and, in turn and time, deliver its own seed. Hands will leave when the person leaves. The dirt will remain as long as there is a planet. It is innate in humans, this toying with the soil, something that cannot be denied or squashed. Then, at the end, a splinter -- a drop of blood to honor every child who has been told to “stay out of the dirt!”
There is something magical about dirt. It grows things like food and flowers to feast our stomachs and eyes upon, yet it is beneath us. We wash it off our feet, yet it covers us in death. I actually wrote a poem called, I Am Dirt. LOL One of the reasons I love Gone with the Wind is Scarlett's love of Tara, inherited from her father. I may be in the middle of nowhere, but this dirt is mine, and I love it.
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