Change is afoot. What change, exactly, remains to be seen.
I find these waiting times difficult. Waiting to see, do, or understand. Waiting when I can't see the outcome, which I feel powerless to control. Waiting without knowing what I'm waiting for, having only a feeling that what is now present must surely pass.
Wow, that was possibly the worst batch of mush I've ever written. My apologies.
It reminds me of a certain college philosophy class I once took which left me closer to taking a hostage than enlightened.
"I think, therefore I am"––Really? I'm pretty sure I had the same breakthrough when I stayed up too late one night with friends drinking Mountain Dew.
So, to keep myself from thinking too much, I'm weeding. And it's a good thing, too. Ever notice how weeds just appear one day, and by the next, they are five foot monsters. Last year, I literally watched the farm where I work nearly succumb to an invading jungle.
This year I am determined to uproot this green army before it's too late and I have to rent a backhoe just to see out my windows. But I like weeding. It keeps my mind off more complicated things, such as life in general. And it makes me feel good. I can live on the high from one good morning of weeding for a week.
I think I might have a green thumb addiction.
Yesterday, fueled by Spring Break and Starbucks, Mountain Guy's three girls and I went out to the farm to battle some back arena invaders. And I am pleased to announce our offensive was wildly successful, nearly demolishing their entire squadron with minimal sisterly bickering. It did require a short ceasefire to procure various energizing beverages from the country convenience store.
But by early afternoon, I was sun-soaked and exhausted. In addition to garden work, hanging with three adolescent girls leaves little space in my head for thought.
After lunch at the park and a stop at Baskin-Robbins, I let Netflix babysit and retired to my bed for a three-hour nap, interrupted only by MG appearing in my doorway to say that he was taking the girls, and leaving a shovel.
Later that evening I used the shovel for weeding out the patch of dirt in front of our apartment. I discovered underground root networks that clearly had no intention of leaving. I pulled and dug and turned over earth until dusk had come and gone. And alas, with the oncoming night, I had to put the shovel away and wash up for dinner.
It's becoming an addiction, this weed-pulling. The dirt under my fingernails makes me disconcertingly happy. It draws my attention to the present, minimizing the current ambiguity of my direction.
In fact, given the choice to ride a roller coaster or garden, I'd rather get my kicks running my hand through upturned earth than flying high above the ground.
I don't know what's next, but at least the ground is ready.
OneArmGirl
I find these waiting times difficult. Waiting to see, do, or understand. Waiting when I can't see the outcome, which I feel powerless to control. Waiting without knowing what I'm waiting for, having only a feeling that what is now present must surely pass.
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| Attention dog |
It reminds me of a certain college philosophy class I once took which left me closer to taking a hostage than enlightened.
"I think, therefore I am"––Really? I'm pretty sure I had the same breakthrough when I stayed up too late one night with friends drinking Mountain Dew.
So, to keep myself from thinking too much, I'm weeding. And it's a good thing, too. Ever notice how weeds just appear one day, and by the next, they are five foot monsters. Last year, I literally watched the farm where I work nearly succumb to an invading jungle.
This year I am determined to uproot this green army before it's too late and I have to rent a backhoe just to see out my windows. But I like weeding. It keeps my mind off more complicated things, such as life in general. And it makes me feel good. I can live on the high from one good morning of weeding for a week.
I think I might have a green thumb addiction.
Yesterday, fueled by Spring Break and Starbucks, Mountain Guy's three girls and I went out to the farm to battle some back arena invaders. And I am pleased to announce our offensive was wildly successful, nearly demolishing their entire squadron with minimal sisterly bickering. It did require a short ceasefire to procure various energizing beverages from the country convenience store.
But by early afternoon, I was sun-soaked and exhausted. In addition to garden work, hanging with three adolescent girls leaves little space in my head for thought.
After lunch at the park and a stop at Baskin-Robbins, I let Netflix babysit and retired to my bed for a three-hour nap, interrupted only by MG appearing in my doorway to say that he was taking the girls, and leaving a shovel.
Later that evening I used the shovel for weeding out the patch of dirt in front of our apartment. I discovered underground root networks that clearly had no intention of leaving. I pulled and dug and turned over earth until dusk had come and gone. And alas, with the oncoming night, I had to put the shovel away and wash up for dinner.
It's becoming an addiction, this weed-pulling. The dirt under my fingernails makes me disconcertingly happy. It draws my attention to the present, minimizing the current ambiguity of my direction.
In fact, given the choice to ride a roller coaster or garden, I'd rather get my kicks running my hand through upturned earth than flying high above the ground.
I don't know what's next, but at least the ground is ready.
OneArmGirl
I am, therefore I weed. May the metaphysics be with you.
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