The dirt and the comment section...
Sometimes I find myself starting blog posts on other people's blogs -- in their comment sections. It is weird, I know. Like THIS POST I wrote when we first moved into our home. I guess it just means they have inspired me, but they must feel weird when I start going on and on...and on and on...
Anyway -- I was recently reading THIS POST at Recipe for Crazy and the way she waxed poetic about the weenie roast on her land kind of made me start waxing poetic and well...this came out in the comment section:
"Land is so special -- like the dirt calls out to our soul or something. Weird the hold it has on us, isn't it? Even when I am digging holes for trees full of rocks and thick, hunky slabs of compacted clay -- it still feels special...like it was just waiting for us to grab it and form it. ...and then you look up and feel like one of those weird old guys that always spent the last minutes of the day "surveying" their land. You know, the ones you thought were just proud of their land in a manly sort of way, but there is something different in it once you own it. Not just a pride of place but something in your soul that says this dirt is home. I hear you girl. roast those weenies and love that land."
You know...whether it is lots and lots of land or just a little plot in the city, there really is something special about the soil you stand on and the land you have been given. I forget sometimes -- particularily in winter when we are inside and bundled, but when springs comes knocking, our heels turn brown and the dirt takes up permanent residence under our fingernails -- well then I hear that call again. The call to dig and get dirty. The call to survey our land like a wizened old man and the call to use what we've been given. Real work. Real joy. Nothin' better.
Anyway -- I was recently reading THIS POST at Recipe for Crazy and the way she waxed poetic about the weenie roast on her land kind of made me start waxing poetic and well...this came out in the comment section:
"Land is so special -- like the dirt calls out to our soul or something. Weird the hold it has on us, isn't it? Even when I am digging holes for trees full of rocks and thick, hunky slabs of compacted clay -- it still feels special...like it was just waiting for us to grab it and form it. ...and then you look up and feel like one of those weird old guys that always spent the last minutes of the day "surveying" their land. You know, the ones you thought were just proud of their land in a manly sort of way, but there is something different in it once you own it. Not just a pride of place but something in your soul that says this dirt is home. I hear you girl. roast those weenies and love that land."
You know...whether it is lots and lots of land or just a little plot in the city, there really is something special about the soil you stand on and the land you have been given. I forget sometimes -- particularily in winter when we are inside and bundled, but when springs comes knocking, our heels turn brown and the dirt takes up permanent residence under our fingernails -- well then I hear that call again. The call to dig and get dirty. The call to survey our land like a wizened old man and the call to use what we've been given. Real work. Real joy. Nothin' better.
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