So the seedlings and I enjoyed a quiet morning together watching TV while I transplanted them to their little pots. I probably watched the TV a little more closely than they did, but I'm sure I saw the tomatoes perk up a bit when the gardening show turned its focus to their delectable brethren.
Playing in the dirt, as I've said before, is remarkably healing. As soon as I slit open the bag of potting soil I felt my body relax. The humid, earthy scent was like a magic elixir, instantly triggering memories of simpler times - like watching my Mom plant seedlings and nurture her little crops of Impatiens through the late spring in preparation for colourful summer gardens.
There is so much promise in a tiny seedling and it seems so miraculous to me that I should be able to play a part in making something so beautiful. The whole process seems so much bigger than it used to for some reason.
I'm not sure why. I mean, I made a child so growing a seed shouldn't really seem all that awe inspiring - but yet it is.
I'm just flummoxed by life in general, I suppose. By its promise, its resilience and its beautiful fragility.
Today was most definitely a good day for playing in the dirt. I needed to feel a part of the process today. I needed it very, very much.