dirt

In England, people like me would be called “small-holders.”

Not too much land, not even enough to generally be thought of as a farm, but enough to keep the owner busy. When we lived in Washington State the small-holders were Italian who grew onions mostly. They would make a respectable living on a few acres of land.

I am not trying to make a living, just a life.

“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to the stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart; to bear on cheerfully, do all bravely, awaiting occasions, worry never; in a word, to, like the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common.” ~ William Henry Channing

I guess that sums it up pretty well.

I’ve been depressed lately. Not big time, but big enough to mess with my head.

Yesterday I got back into the garden. Got my hands in dirt.

I made a living on my knees and now that I am mostly a gardener, I do that mostly on my knees too. At that range even the dirt looks different. At the end of the day my back was tired (pay off for winter laziness), but my mind was at ease.

Dirt. Amazing stuff. Drives grandmothers nuts and calms grandfathers!

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Last night I dreamed I was elected president (of something or other). It was kind of a big deal people around me were worrying and fussing.

And the thought struck me, in my dream of course, “Now I won’t be able to wear my regular old clothes.”

The other day I was remembering and thinking. I don’t remember ever seeing either of my high school principles in anything but a suit, white shirt and tie. They seemed to think that shirt and tie were important. We were not even allowed to wear Levi’s.

It is amazing how important small things can be, or seem to be.