[ENTRY TAKEN FROM THE OLD BLOG]

The multi-level planters surrounding the perimeter of my yard were made for growth; ideal for an organic vegetable garden. Gratitude filled my heart every time I looked outside until I looked at the soil and how much work would be needed to make the ground a hospitable environment for my little garden seedlings. Cracked clay- like dirt made me doubt whether any plant variety had made their home there before my takeover.

So I purchased a tool—a tiller thingy like you see on the infomercials. As I sit here typing my arms burn from pounding it into the dirt and turning clockwise until the dirt broke; I only got through about 1/10th of the ground that cries out to be tilled (“till me, Katie!”).

The tilling process left me with better ground but still not appropriate for growth. Much more work needed to be done. The balls of dirt that resembled rocks melted as they rolled between my palms. Breaking down the remnants of the clay it once was. They looked like rocks. Any small child would have stacked them, thrown them or put them in their pocket, only to be surprised that, when handled aggressively enough, they would break apart showing their true identity. We are not made of rock. The clumps of dirt from our past, like calcium build-ups in the top of the Brita, hold fast to each other making it difficult to decipher if they are permanent fixtures in our life. But as the gardener, with hands that wont grow weary as mine are, squeezes them and rolls them between his hands, they slowly disintegrate creating an environment ideal for growth and cultivating fruit.

As the day ends, I am nowhere near ready to plant. There is much more to be done. But there is a portion of my soul (and my soil) that is soft and broken down.