To dig in one's own earth, with one's own spade, does life hold anything better? - Beverly Nichols
After a long, cold winter I am ever watchfull for the first glimpse of spring.
How it thrills my heart to spy the first spring birds after their long vacation in Southern climes,
or the white trilliums and yellow lady slippers poking through the debris of winter,
or the new buds promising fragrant blooms on lilac bushes that dot the Island's landscape.
What I miss most, though, during the frigid, frosty months, is my connectin to the soil and what it produces, whether it's garden-fresh vegetables, sun-ripened fruits or brillant blooms.
As strange as it may sound, I need the feel of warm, black dirt running through my fingers. the outdoorsy smell of fresh-turned dirt on my work cloths and , yes, even the taste of a morsel of dirt on my tongue.
In an almost spirtual way, dirt is the substance that ties me to the earth. Just as soil keeps plants firmly anchored, it also keeps me grounded in what's real and what's important. It helps me stay connected. Working with my hands - tilling the soil, planting the seeds, watering the sprouts, hoeing the weeds, pruning the vines and harvesting the crops yields such a rewarding sense of accomplishment.
The first day I dig my fingers deep into the soft earth I can feel its energy, and my spirits soar.