Gardening

A dainty white butterfly danced in the air, and the world held its breath for a second.

Never would I ever have predicted that I would choose to write about gardening. Ever. Because here's what gardening means to me.

Sweat! Oh, the joys of perspiration. I am one of those relentless sweaters, sopping wet after doing a push-up. Haha, jokes, like I've ever done an actual push-up. Oh, I've done about 15 bad push-ups, but what's with lowering the length of your body in a perfectly straight line, like my shoulder bones sag to the floor when I try and that's just how it is. Add the sun and a lawn mower and you've got yourself a severely cranky roasted Reyna.

Dirt! Ok, I don't mind the dirt in and of itself. In fact I like dirt, as I discovered during a house-building project in Mexico. Whereas I viewed myself as a person who'd be uncomfortable covered in grime from head to toe, I came to love feeling so connected to the earth, experiencing what it was like to physically toil under the sun. But hot red and chalky dirt is different from moist black and mysterious dirt like I have at home. Strange creatures live in this dirt, unspeakable things like worms and snails. GROSS GROSS GROSS! They're slimy and slippery and have no visible eyes so they can just keep living in there and I will just keep on living in the happy four walls of my home, thank you very much. This was the love I had for gardening up until this morning.

See, I was doing the obligatory lawn mowing like a good little person, and the mower kept getting clogged up. I had to take breaks whenever it stopped because it was just too frustrating otherwise. In my breaks I decided to pull small weeds from around our rosebushes, no big deal, takes two seconds. I eventually flipped the mower over, cleared out an accumulation of grass, and finished the lawn. 

By then, I was already sweaty and grassy so I figured I could pull this one long weed from the rock bed. Which led to removing some dead underbrush from the rock wall. Which led to a series of frenzied attacks on the wall, pulling out mostly weeds and a little bit of just-fine vine, and a bubble of elation welling up inside of me. I found an extension cord, pulled out the weed whacker, and trimmed the long grass that had been revealed. I took the whacker to the overgrown flower beds, devoid of flowers but blooming with undesirables. Then I went in with my hands, ripping and hauling and sweating and toiling.

The whole time all I could think about was how alive I felt. Metaphors poured into my brain, out with the old and in with the new, get rid of the weeds or you'll crowd out the good things. Was I doing this to impress the guests coming over this evening? No, we only need to impress ourselves, to be impressive. Was it this easy to feel invigorated? Yes, this is good to know. Why didn't I care that I was breathing in dirt and getting pricked by thorny plants? I couldn't quite say. But to celebrate my newfound pleasure, I did a cartwheel off my deck. I decided it was random and awesome. Then I ran over and pulled some more weeds.

Today I found five snails, stared them in the eyeless face, and did not throw in the gloves. This is serious. Gardening is heaven.

It was just for a second. But it mattered.