Today brought us one of the first nice, sunny, beautiful days in a while, and as soon as I stepped outside, I was irresistably drawn to start digging in the long-neglected flower bed at our front door. I love plants, gardening, and essentially playing in the dirt, and I have been dying to loiter at garden centers, blow my budget on plants, and turn a rectangle of lifeless dirt back into a flower garden.
I marched, zombie-like, directly to the flower bed, and started pulling weeds like my life depended on it. I trimmed winter-murdered stems, gave a haircut to the bad-ass vinca vine who survived the entire winter in a pot by our front door, removed the grass and weeds trying to take up residency in the empty flower bed, and dug our doorstep out of the blanket of leaves that likes to curl up there.
I’ve always felt in my element in the garden, surrounded by plants, strolling aisles of garden centers while designing elaborate, out-of-my-budget landscaping in my mind, then settling for the few pots of flowers that will fit in the tiny flower bed beside our front door. I remember drooling over botany and houseplant books as a high school kid and starting my indoor plant collection in my college dorm room, until my father grew exasperated at lugging the pots from my room to home, from home back to my room, each semester, and made me cut back the green-leaved brood.
Now that I’ve touched the dirt, it’s like a monster tasting blood. I want more. It’s time to start lurking at garden centers, eying up flowers, poking bags of mulch, hunting down my gardening gloves. Time to start picturing what plants will survive and hopefully thrive in this nasty, mostly-sand, totally-weedy dirt. Time to just play in the dirt and see what grows.