I had a friend, years ago, who always impressed me with his enthusiasm for his job. A civil engineer, Pat assisted with the design, construction, and maintenance of water systems in rural Pennsylvania. Not exactly thrilling work from my perspective.
"Why do you love your job so much?" I asked, expecting an answer about the necessary flow of water or the provision of service to otherwise forgotten areas.
"Dirt," he said, eyes shining like an exclamation point. "Every day, I get to touch the dirt."
Dirt? All this excitement over dirt?
Although I can't remember where I set down my reading glasses an hour ago, I remember that moment. It left an indelible mark on my heart.
I thought about Pat this weekend as I labored, hot and exhausted, in my backyard. About a month ago, an idea overtook me—literally reached out, grabbed hold, and refused to let go. I walked onto my dilapidated deck and imagined something new in my back yard, something different, something that called to my soul. All of the sudden, with passion and insistence, I wanted a garden, a true and vibrant space with a patio, an arbor, and a bench—and flowers, deep, rich beds of multi-colored hues.
I didn't have much to work with. Besides the faded deck, crepe myrtles lined a worn, wooden fence, and renegade weeds overtook flowers in haphazard beds. The weariness of the yard encouraged me. I wanted to breathe new life into old spaces, to purposefully cultivate hope.
My husband, Brian, looked at the yard and rolled his eyes at my plans.
I could not be dissuaded. My mind raced to tranquil places.
The deck had to be dealt with first. I no longer wanted to sit aloof and aloft. I longed to create a peaceful place and then immerse myself in it, to step down from the incessant busyness of life into a world more elemental and real.
"Chop it off here," I said, standing in the middle of the deck.
Brian replied with pesky details about support beams, measurements, and the concrete base. All logical yet obsolete. I talked through his objections, described in great detail the garden that existed in my mind. I spoke with joy and the faintest hint of desperation.
"I want a garden," I said.
I need a garden.
That's how I ended up toiling for hours in clay as hard as stone. The ground seemed impenetrable at first, until a chip here, a chunk there, and the ground finally gave way to my determination.
Heat draped itself in a cloak of assaulting humidity. Why had this particular compulsion hit me smack dab in the middle of a Virginia Beach summer? Perspiration trickled down my back and stung my eyes. Normally I would have thrown down the shovel, given up, and given in. Instead, I continued and allowed myself to experience the discomfort, to walk hand-in-hand with the pain.
I dug until my shoulders ached, my hands blistered, and my skin shimmered with sweat. I dug until dirt streaked my calves and caked against the tops of my shoes. I dug until my lower back revolted and fired warning flares of pain up my spine. Still I dug—shovel in, shovel out—the repetition washing over me like waves.
For hours, I planted and transplanted in the withering heat. Hydrangeas, jasmine, ivy, and euonymus found home among the irises, tiger lilies, and trees. Sunshine danced through the leaves as I worked, creating an ever-changing display of light mosaics on the lawn. I inhaled the jasmine-scented breeze and forged new beds, deeper, fuller, more resplendent and alive. I placed a black and blue sage, with its brilliant flowers and musty scent, in a small bed around the corner so that I could come upon it as I wandered.
Brian and I anchored a wooden arbor in the corner, welcomed to its place by leaf-shaped stepping-stones, bright green ground cover, and freshly planted vines. A cedar bench, strong and simple, took refuge in the shade. I sat there for a moment, sipping water. The yard hummed with activity, previously unseen. Spiders cast their webs in the tree behind me. Birds encouraged each other in song. A hummingbird darted along stray weeds, burying his beak in orange trumpet blossoms. A dragonfly buzzed past me—fast, determined, on the move.
He could be me, that dragonfly.
Stop. Slow down. Wherever it is you are going, how important could it possibly be? Don't you see that there are roses here to smell?
Parts of the deck fell away under my husband's steady hand. I picked up the shovel and joined him as he peeled back the flooring to expose sturdy, wooden bones. We dug up concrete anchors and set our yard adrift. We moved quietly together, somewhere past exhaustion, past complaint.
Dusk settled. I moved into the area of yard that would become patio, digging through grass and roots until I hit black dirt. Beetles and worms wriggled on my shovel, stunned for a moment before hunkering down into new horizons as I filled my beds with their fertile soil. The shovel sank easily now into rich earth. My heart surged forward—as if released from the hardened clay—and grabbed hold of a moment of unadulterated joy. Tears streaked my dirt-covered cheeks.
Much more work remained. That didn't matter. I had found my sacred space.
"Dirt," Pat said. "Every day, I get to touch the dirt."
I smiled and wiped the tears from my face as fireflies twinkled in the darkness, brilliant, unexpected, transforming darkness into light.
BIO: VALERIE WILKINSON lives in Virginia Beach where she balances her time between family, work, and writing. She has written speeches for state and national politicians and has ghostwritten communications for business leaders, regional and international charities, and political figures. She is the co-author of Whispers from Our Soul: The Voice of Tahkamenon and is currently completing her second collaboration Mafia Madness: My Life under Siege. Contact Valerie at: v.wilkinson@cox.net