When the veil is thin between the worlds , those who walk between and those who do not , cross paths frequently, creating friction that leaves invisible trails behind them. When we inadvertently move into these energy streams we get caught in tangles not of our own making. Unusual disagreements crop up, anxieties re-emerge, suspicions and guilty memories of past actions become first conscious again and we find ourselves wandering , not a little lost in a mist of "where did I put myself?"and we can compound our distress by realligning our energies with the friction stream.
Dressed in Carhartts lined in flannel and counting my breaths as they hung outlined in frost, I felt the confusion and painful distrust crowd around me as I picked up the tools from the back of the suburu. Three rakes, a spade, Felcos :large and small, large green shovel and wheelbarrow from the shed. Wheeling to the swale, the past weeks of difficulty were the companions closest at my heels, not the brisk breeze, the carrying bird calls, the swiftly changing light as clouds were rearranged, not the sweet smelling earth waiting for me. For weeks now I had been working through internal fears of my clients evaporating, mistrust in particular from one group, and the bleed through of this fear into all of the other aspects of my life. It has felt there was no respite , no gentle space of quiet to compose and reunite with serenity.
Unloading the tools took minutes to lay out in order . Pulling roots, following the creeping vines back to their in - ground start , cutting back the Viburnum, raking , raking , and raking some more to expose the fertile soil beneath the rubble. Pitching rotting limbs, broken sticks, and sawn log ends, spading out weeds, and carting barrow after barrow of detritus to the pile. Pulling my belly in as I pulled the spring rake back , down the hill, arching into cat stretch as I pulled tenacious 7 foot long creepers from the earth (roots and all) and exhaling as my foot hit the spade around the large weeds. Breathe , move , bend , stretch. ....And then I got to dig.
My youngest came for the last hour of a twelve hour project with his two rakes and shovel, his plant tool belt , and his smile. And we got down to the business of digging. Serious business digging in the soil. The contents of which we can analyze with microscopes and spectrascopes but only really understand when we put our hands into her and dig. We needed to make beds for the bulbs, 130 narcissus ,crocus, and galianthus that would be cozy and warm and nurturing while they did their winters work. So into the mix went a 41/2 year old 's shovel scoops of compost , hand kneaded into the site then planting "noses up bottoms down nestle in season round"( our planting rhyme), a sheet of compost then a blanket of earth tucked in around each bed of bulbs. A prayer for safe keeping. And it was time to clean up our tools and to head on out.
After dinner and before bed I felt myself seperating from the stream, peace and a subtle radiating joy make its way through my consciousness. Bone weary. Dirty. Very ,very dirty. In my hair, my pores, my nose. Ground in to my clothes. Just for today , just for right now, I felt reunited. Little boys and dirt. Mommies and sons. grace. Chilly grey days of promise. what's growing in the earth may blossom in the spring but it has taken root in our hearts today.