"Dirt Envy . . . "
|from Southern Accents.|
As a big city dweller, there are many things that I enjoy about my life. I can usually see all the new art films as soon as they are released. (btw, go - and I mean go NOW - to see Jane Eyre. Seriously good.) I can get chinese food delivered in less than 30 minutes with a phone call to the place around the corner. And San Francisco boasts more than two competitive fencing clubs within its city limits. Now, I've not darken the door of any of them in over three years - but I very easily could.
But, that's not my present obsession. It's Spring. And I wanna get my hands dirty. Like my days as a child in Mississippi - playing in the yard. Helping to plant the garden. Tromping adventurously through the acres of forests behind our house looking for dogwood trees beginning to bloom. All the while, trying to avoid walking through the spiderwebs that were billowing between the trees.
And here within the citified boundaries of my current existence, no such experiences seem to present themselves. There's no rough hewn shed awaiting me - with seed packets. With masses of terracotta pots . Or a collection of barely matched mucking boots. I miss the sight of my own footprints in the early morning dew. The feel of peat moss. The threatening sounds of bees getting closer.
Perhaps, I've watched a bit too much of The Fabulous Beekman Boys over the weekend. Or maybe I should attack the two tiny window boxes outside the citied kitchen window and try to create some magic this weekend.