Dirt under my nails

Summer wanes.   In the Delta Bay Community Garden, another bed has been laid.  I got good silt under my finger nails tonight, rich with composted manure from a nearby horse farm.  We hauled it in Jessie and Ken’s new Prius and my sturdy RAV4.

I worked too late last night, sending out job applications and resumes.  By the time I got to bed, tomorrow had arrived.  A handful of hours later, the sun rose over the park and I dragged myself awake.  I pulled my body around the floor, grateful for such a small living space.  Staggering to the stove, to the coffee, to the bathroom takes so much less effort in a tiny house.

The air moves over me with a gentleness that I crave these days.  I’ve renewed my dedication to stretching even though my body hurts again, aches and burns like it did years ago.  Each cell screams  for  placation.  I’m remembering the days when I had scores of narcotics in the cabinet.  I’d wash them down with cold coffee and lie in bed waiting for the fog.

I got cleaned of those prescription drugs four years ago.  Now I let the breeze soothe me, and the  herbal tea stands hot in my mug on the railing of my porch.  I take nothing stronger than Tylenol.  I’d rather have pain than numbness and the bleak disconnection that the painkillers brought.  If it overwhelms me, I open the window a little wider, close my eyes, and breathe the heady fragrance of the California Delta.

It’s the seventh day of the fifty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.


A few shots of the Park Delta Bay Community Garden


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