Even though I’ve been complaining about all the yardwork I’ve been doing, it’s all I feel like doing. I’ve got a conference proposal due, a summer class to plan, and an edited book collection to figure out. But what gets me excited is watering my rhododendren with leftover coffee grounds and planning the layout for my veggie garden. I love digging in the dirt. I love my garden clogs. I love hauling around my wheelbarrow. I love things that are green and grow. I love how forgiving and inexact gardening is (or seems to be). I love getting free mulch. I love inheriting clippings and plants from friends and family. I love dreaming about a picket fence and future perennial beds.

Sometimes I wonder if gardening is the opposite of writing. Writing is so solitary, so internal, so intanglible. Plus it seems to take forever. Gardening is outside, physical, and visible. But I suppose you need perseverance and patience and inspiration for both. Maybe the trick is to balance them and plant seeds both in the soil and on my Mac.


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