All I really want to do is play in the dirt. Last fall I planted a few tulip bulbs in pots, so that I could force them into bloom early this spring. I had placed them in a box, in the shed, with 25 February written on the outside; which would provide them the necessary stratification period of 12 weeks, before bringing them indoors. I will now pull them out of the warm nest of leaves that have insulated them from freezing and place them in a sunny window. The problem is, I have only a few windows that receive sun and far too little space, not to mention a kitten who may find the temptation to dig irresistible. I have only recently succeeded in teaching him to stay out of my large houseplants.
My urge to push my fingers into soil is pretty much an unconscious, automatic inclination. I imagine that it must be the same for a pianist who, when he walks into a room with a piano, is compelled to play it. All other obligations and duties get filed to the back of my “to do” list when I find myself suddenly grooming a plant to remove its decaying leaves – or all out repotting it. I step into a timeless zone of bliss, as though I am hypnotized, forgetting about the things I had planned to do that day. Inevitably, these days that diverge me from my previous scheduled tasks are the most enjoyable. Reality eventually interludes and I remember that I still need to write this blog, go to work at my job, make my dinner, and take care of all the other mundane things. But in all honesty, all I really want to do is to play all day in the dirt.
