Cutter. Mini-shovel. nails. My trusty pair of gloves. With a stubborn certainty on how to spend my morning, I called in these good old buddies 'o mine so they can pitch in some help for me. And indeed, we have had a field day doing yard work, under the scorching heat of the sun.
I spent more than three solid hours pulling off unsightly weeds like I’m yanking someone’s hair, digging through the earth like I’m bashing someone in the stomach,
pummeling the ground as if crushing inner demons like anger, despair, and the like, lifting and dragging off weighty pots like setting aside stupid pride ,
piling up stones to bury recent hurts, loading soil to earthen pots and sowing in the plants to pack positive vibes,
and then setting these leafy pals in order and putting things in their proper perspective.
Under the curious glare of the summer sun, the icy walls of fear melted. And it felt so liberating, breaking loose from its clutches.
As the beads of sweat trickled down my arms, back and face, I was cleansed with its healing salts.
The seemingly ordinary bath after my self-imposed task, which filled me with some sense of achievement, was made glorious because of the feeling of triumph, of joy. So refreshing.
Although the grass-slash-cedarwood-slash-cucumber scent I am sporting to work this afternoon is synthetic, the healthy blush I am wearing is all natural.