I’m feeling highly anxious. Last week was a week of crazy clients at work, and this week is shaping up to be the same, plus one of my coworkers is on vacation so I’ve got about 33% more to do. Eric’s having health problems due to medication he’s taking and is going to attempt to lower his dosage by himself, so I’m on changed-behavior watch. (He’s also getting an appointment with his doctor soon.) My brother’s having a second attack of pancreatitis and has no insurance, though his boss is being extremely kind by getting him on the program in a couple of weeks, earlier than company policy dictates. Also, it’s that time of month.

Tonight, I am starting seeds, and–more importantly, I think–I’m going outside and trimming bushes, raking leaves, turning compost, getting my jeans dirty. If it’s not absolutely pouring or dark, I am doing this: not because my yard needs it, but because I do. I am also looking forward to my evening exercise session, which is not something I do often (I mean, look forward to it, though I haven’t been doing the exercise as often as I ought, either). As my friend says about her baking habit, it’s cheaper than therapy.

I want to be out in the mud, hearing the occasional bird twitter, noticing the early spiders (why does it have to be spiders?) skittering along the old leaves, feeling the cold air crawl up my sleeves and under my collar. I want to expend some energy to make things better, neater, more alive. We make gardens for ourselves, anyway, not for nature or the neighbors or the resale value of the house. I don’t care if spring has come or not. It’s time to garden.

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