I am a garden girl at heart. Yes, I very much like to get dressed up and go out wearing something bright or sparkly. But I’m most myself amongst the plants, hair pulled back, wielding a pick axe. There is just something so divine about getting lost in that timeless space, covered head to toe in soil: sweaty, smelly and totally blissful.
My son and I were lucky enough to enjoy that type of morning yesterday. My husband had to work so we visited a nearby plant nursery and spent the best three dollars imaginable on a six-pack of strawberries. We spent a few hours in the front and back yards digging, weeding and ultimately planting our little sweet gems. There is nothing like seeing your seven-year-old son humming and singing as he throws dirt around and tells stories only a child can come up with (there’s also nothing like seeing your two hound dogs digging up the garden bed you’ve just planted – but that’s a different story).
We each have our place where we feel most at home. If you’re lucky you know what it is, and if you’re even luckier, you make the time to go there. It could be the mountains or the water, maybe even the middle of a busy city.
I know that I will blink my eyes and my son will be all grown up, moving out, creating a life of his own. He won’t be flinging dirt around (unless he turns out like me), because he’ll have his own path to carve. But that little boy will always be with me, in a garden somewhere, in the soil that’s still stuck under my fingernails, which I’m not so quick to wash away.